


Pretty In Punk

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, The Academy Is...
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Timeline, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Friendship, HIV/AIDS, I promise, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Moments of fluff, Peterick, Sort Of, Underage Drinking, Van Days, no one dies, punk!patrick, punk!pete, punks, smartmouth!Patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 114,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: April 29th, 1986. Glenview, Illinois.“If you’re gonna kick my ass,” Patrick snarls, “just fucking do it, pussy.”Shirtless laughs.It’s not a pretty laugh - it’s brash and sharp and jolts through Patrick - but it’s genuine and warm, it twinkles up into his eyes and creases their corners, stretches his lips into a wide grin as his mohawk wilts and flops down onto his brow. His free hand cups Patrick’s cheek, pinching soft flesh between fingers tipped with black-painted nails, “Oh man, you’re cute as shit. Chris,” he addresses the dickweed that hauled Patrick through the club, “can we keep him? I’ll name him Baby P and I swear I’ll walk him every day.”A re-telling of the tale of Fall Out Boy against the backdrop of the Cold War, leg warmers and Duran Duran.





	1. Please Turn That Fucking Radio Off

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, let's take a moment to imagine it's 1986, Madonna is in the charts and spandex are cool. This is a reimagining of the Fall Out Boy that could have been... Fifteen years before it happened.

It isn’t that Patrick doesn’t _know_ sneaking out of the house is a bad idea. He does. He absolutely does. But, standing in the cold drizzle of a late April night in his leather jacket - stiff under the arms and around the collar with newness, fake ID burning a hole in his pocket - he sparks with excitement. His fingers sting from the countless times he's jabbed the pins into the tender skin trying his best to secure the Dead Kennedys patch to the back. His mom had _freaked_. A brand new jacket - a brand new _expensive_ jacket - and he’s poked holes in it.

His toes are pinched in the unyielding vice of his shiny new Doc Martens and the fabric of his plaid pants is bright and slightly slick, fresh from the store. His suspenders are a little too loose, slipping off his shoulders under his jacket and pressing uncomfortably against his upper arms. He’s wearing a Sex Pistols shirt but no one else is - it’s all Black Flag and Minor Threat - it’s badly judged and badly timed, real punk is dead and he… He wants to stamp his feet at the unfairness of it because he wasn’t _old enough_ to enjoy it at the right time.

He looks - he knows - every inch the poser. But… every pair of boots needs to be worn for the first time at some point, right? Every leather jacket was new once. At least he’d drawn the line by refusing to buy one of the pre-patched numbers from the ridiculous store in the mall. It had to be real, had to be authentic, bought from a tiny little store off Milwaukee where his mom had complained about the smell of joss sticks - _drugs_ she'd sniffed - and the cooler teens had snickered behind their Social Distortion albums.

“We’re never fucking getting in,” Will hisses into his ear, breath hot and sharply scented with the wine coolers they’ve shared behind the gas station, _we need to be buzzed but like… nicely buzzed, you know?_

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick whispers back, all slightly drunk fire and fury as the guy in front with the foot-high mohawk sneers at them over his studded shoulder. If anyone’s going to stop them getting in it will absolutely be Will with his stupid black duster and ridiculous, feathery hair all back combed and hair-sprayed away from his face. This is VOID, and while it’s not Exit - well, this _is_ fucking _Glenview_ after all - Patrick will take what he can get and what he can get is an almost-famous band in a semi-cool club in the least cool suburb of Chicago.

The line shuffles forward, rain dropping diamonds in hair coloured like rainbows as eyeliner bleeds into chalk white foundation. Punk paint, street art, raw and beautiful and Patrick can’t really take it in because, come on, he wasn’t going to wear his fucking glasses to an Arma show. The flyer - handwritten, scrawled in marker on cheap, porous paper, the edges of each letter leeching into one another - is scrunched in his pocket. It’s bright with the promise of the final sentence - _minors are encouraged to attend._

The doorman is fucking huge. Terrifyingly huge. Solid muscle and a shaved head that’s damp and shining under the street lights. Patrick sort of half planned his argument, how he was going to show the flyer to any asshole security guard that tried to turn him away, how he’d say something clever and cutting and the others waiting in line would cheer at his sparkling wit. 

But Patrick’s good at daydreams and bad at life so instead - the thing that actually happens - is he holds out his ID all meek compliance, eyes lowered as it’s plucked from his grasp and inspected with a dark chuckle, before that motherfucker tosses it straight into the trash can to his right. Does he argue? Of course he doesn’t, though there’s ridiculous heat behind his eyes as he waits to be kicked out of line. Instead, miracle of fucking miracles, he’s waved through, into the smoke and heat and the low red light just without a stamp on his hand that would entitle him to drink.

“You look fucking ridiculous,” he informs Will, as conspicuously out of place as he’s ever seen someone look. Okay, he’s not exactly blending in with his Camden chic when it’s all hardcore sxe and wall-to-fucking-wall ripped jeans but at least he’s vaguely genre-appropriate. “I _told you_ there’d be none of your fucking goth bullshit here. This is fucking _VOID,_ you asshole…”

“You say that likes it’s fucking CBGB,” Will sneers, smoothing the front of his shirt, “and anyway, don’t act like your record collection doesn’t have The goddamn Cure.”

“It’s mathematically fucking _perfect_ pop music,” Patrick argues back, because it’s way too much fun to fuck with Will, “so fuck you.”

“Pop music?” Will is outraged which just looks fucking stupid with his thick eyeliner and frilled shirt. “It’s… Fuck you!” Patrick snickers as he looks around - _VOID,_ they fucking did it.

Jackets are abandoned at the cloakroom, they head into the depths of the club and it’s everything he hoped it would be whilst simultaneously not being anything like he imagined _at all._ The walls are monochrome with pasted on posters of bands that have come and gone through the stage doors, the air is thick with a musk of sweat, Kuoros, cigarette smoke and teenage anger. They’re rushed, pressed into the crush as they barely make it into the room before Arma take the stage.

For Patrick, crushed in the crowd at his first show, it’s _euphoric_. It’s passion and fury as he descends into the pit, a sense of screaming, raging _oneness_ with everyone around him as they shout out the lyrics like a fucking war cry. It’s shoving and pushing and desperate, needing _movement_ to dissonant guitars and thrashing drums. Someone slams into him - hard - and he shoves back, feels the catch of fists in his back, the crush of bodies everywhere and he’s soaring, fucking _weightless,_ above it all as the music bleeds into his veins and thrums through him, as his pulse picks the line of the drums and rings in his ears. He’ll be bloody with battle wounds by the end of the set, he knows it, there’ll be bruises and cuts and muscles that ache but the studs on his wrists and the chains looped from his waist will have left their own marks on other bodies in a beautiful kind of symmetry.

_This,_ Patrick has already decided, _this_ is how he wants to live. How he wants to die. How he wants to draw each breath into his lungs from now until they give out. 

When the set closes the floor calms a little. Patrick gulps down a glass of water just in time for the DJ to take over and it’s fun, pogoing with Will, but it’s not the same. It’s not the depth of fire in his belly, not the electric charge that had scorched through his veins with the angry guitars and clashing drums and desperate, screamed lyrics that spoke of all of the hopeless teenage rage that Patrick feels at the world around him. Of the politicians that don’t listen and the teachers that don’t care and the parents that don’t _get it._

But he’s having a good time, bouncing around in the crowd until someone, very deliberately - or at least if feels pretty fucking _deliberate_ \- slams into him hard enough to send him sprawling forward into Will.

“Get out of my fucking _way,”_ a voice admonishes sharply, a few others laugh, mocking and jeering. “Fucking baby punks…”

Patrick considers himself many things. He’s a good son who loves his mom very much, he’s a pretty solid student with a nice line of B+ and A- grades to his name, he’s a great friend which Will would attest to in a heartbeat, always shares his records and his far too generous allowance. But one thing he’s not blessed with is a particularly long fuse. _Passionate_ is what he’d call himself, if he was asked. _Bad-tempered asshole_ is probably the term Will would use to describe him, if anyone asked him the same question. So - here’s the thing - he could have overlooked the shove, it’s a pit after all, he could have shrugged it off and carried on having a good night. But the sneering? The attitude? The giggling from the friends? _Baby fucking punk?_

Nope. No fucking way.

He’s already swinging as he turns, knuckles connecting with something hard - a nose? A jaw? He just isn’t sure - a satisfying starburst of pain rippling from the point of impact. He starts to swing again, his arm snagged from behind as he’s dragged back into a solid chest, more arms joining them, pinning him, holding him as he hisses fury and useless threats, “Let the fuck go of me, motherfuckers, you want some? Try me, fucking _try me!”_

He’s snarling - spitting fire - as he glares at the prick that shoved him, scowls right back at mocking amber eyes and a mouth that’s set like it’s always frowning, the full lower lip slashed with red that matches the crimson streaked across Patrick’s knuckles. The other guy is shirtless and sweating, skin honey-gold swirled with ink and scattered with fine, dark hair. He’s lithe and slim, suspenders stretched up and over his bare shoulders and hooked to painted-on Levi’s as he dabs at his lip with his discarded shirt. He’s assessing Patrick, judging him, critical and scornful and Patrick - Patrick’s already decided he hates his fucking guts.

“I’ll get him the fuck outta here,” whoever’s holding him is already dragging him backward and he struggles, kicks and jerks, but it’s hard to fight back with his arms twisted up behind his back and hissing ineffectual _assholes_ and _motherfuckers_ doesn’t seem to actually be _doing_ much.

“Bring him out back,” Shirtless issues instructions like he’s Prince fucking Punk, tongue flicking over his lip and Patrick hopes it stings. “Let him cool off.”

So he’s hauled along, arms aching and ire spitting and bubbling in his chest, Shirtless sauntering ahead. Which is when Patrick sees it - the backstage pass that hangs from a belt loop like a casual accusation. It hits him like he hit Shirtless.

He just punched a member of Arma Angelus. He just punched him - in his ridiculous fucking face - and split his lip.

Patrick is familiar with the concept of his mouth writing checks that his ass can’t cash but this could be his biggest miscalculation yet. Shirtless flicks a smirk over his shoulder as he’s hauled backstage and into a grimy dressing room, tossed onto a ratty couch and surrounded by much larger, much older and much more intimidating guys than him. Shirtless seems amused, lounging back and grinning like it’s the funniest fucking thing in the world, one battered Chuck kicked up against the wall and arms folded across a tattooed chest. Patrick does _not_ regret punching him, not for a second. 

“So, baby punk-”

“Patrick,” he interrupts sharply. If he’s going to get his ass kicked he’ll do it with fire in his belly and barbs on his lips. Shirtless quirks an eyebrow in amused query. “My name. It’s fucking _Patrick._ Fuck you with the _baby punk_ bullshit.”

Shirtless seems to mull this over for a moment as nervous sweat prickles under Patrick’s arms and down his spine. If they’re going to kick the shit out of him they could at least be polite enough to get it over and done with. His hands ball into fists as Shirtless pushes away from the wall and moves towards him, dangerous muscle and intimidating ink. No one else moves, apparently Shirtless is the elected leader and spokesperson, or perhaps it’s a dictatorship but that doesn’t seem in the punk spirit somehow. He pauses, looming over Patrick on the couch, fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh as he stares down at him with that same infuriating smirk on his face. Patrick’s heart is pounding, a messy hum in his ears, mouth dry as the wine coolers threaten to burn their way back up. Shirtless leans over him, hand braced against the back of the couch, just behind and to the left of Patrick’s ear as he draws out his cat-and-mouse torture.

“If you’re gonna kick my ass,” Patrick snarls, “just fucking _do_ it, pussy.”

Shirtless laughs.

It’s not a pretty laugh - it’s brash and sharp and jolts through Patrick - but it’s genuine and warm, it twinkles up into his eyes and creases their corners, stretches his lips into a wide grin as his mohawk wilts and flops down onto his brow. His free hand cups Patrick’s cheek, pinching soft flesh between fingers tipped with black-painted nails, “Oh man, you’re cute as shit. Chris,” he addresses the dickweed that hauled Patrick through the club, “can we keep him? I’ll name him Baby P and I swear I’ll walk him _every day.”_

“Bite me,” Patrick snaps, swatting away the hand from his face, humiliation heating his skin as the others laugh like that asswipe is the funniest motherfucker in Chicago. 

Shirtless continues to taunt him, “He’ll need obedience classes but look, he’s got this cute little collar,” he slides his finger under the leather and studs resting snugly around Patrick’s throat, “I just need a leash…”

“Go fuck yourself,” somehow Patrick has a loop of suspender in each hand and Shirtless’ nose very close to his as he spits venom into that smug, smirking face, the face that loses just a little of it’s arrogance as he’s yanked off balance, saving himself by bracing a knee between Patrick’s against the couch. “You think you’re hot fucking shit, like you never just started out? What, you fell outta your mom in those jeans?”

Okay - Patrick is the first to admit it - antagonising him probably isn’t the smartest move he’s ever made. But he’s surviving high school by making sure he takes the first swing; the short poindexter with the face of a nerd but without the ability to do the jocks’ homework. He’s not _good_ at fighting but he’s good at making sure they know he’s not _scared._ Tanned fingers tense against his collar until it’s uncomfortably tight, enough to sharpen his breathing into a high rasp and he’s close - _thisfuckingclose_ \- to slamming his knee up into the crotch inches above it when, just as suddenly, they loosen.

“I like you, Baby P,” he grins, toothy and bright, a stomach-lurching, groin-tingling, blinding-white smile that’s almost enough to distract Patrick from the sharp bite of irritation as Shirtless pats his cheek in a patronising parody of affection. “You’re ballsy.”

The room seems to flood with oxygen as Shirtless straightens and turns to a friend with another of those bulb-bright grins and sharp bray of laughter, like everyone was holding their breath, the anticipation of the sharp salt-copper stench of spilled blood and fighting dispersing with the bunched crowd around the couch. Patrick's not sure if he should stand, if he should leave or if he’s still on some kind of warped time out under the unspoken instruction of Shirtless. He’s awkward and stiff on the couch, exposed without his jacket to hide behind as the cooler, older guys - the type he idolises from a distance - circulate the room with beer and easy conversation. He’s backstage and yes, he knows, it’s _only_ VOID and it’s _only_ a local band but he’s _there_ with the music still ringing in his ears and this could be him, _has to be him-_

“Beer?” It’s not really a question as a bottle is pressed into his hand, it’s warm and far less sweet than he imagined it would be. He wants to grimace but he forces it down and tries to look nonchalant as Shirtless collapses onto the couch next to him. There’s a clink of glass against glass then half of it is tipped down a golden throat - contracting and pulsing in interesting ways - and Patrick isn’t thinking about anything weird, swear to God he’s not. “You throw a fucking _solid_ punch, Baby P.”

“Call me Baby P one more time and you might just see me throw another,” Patrick threatens without any real weight.

“Maybe the P stands for Patrick,” Shirtless grins, raking a hand through his hair. It’s pointless, his mohawk is fucked and falling, his hair limp and starting to curl. 

“Oh, right, because Baby Patrick is _so_ much better,” Patrick rolls his eyes and wishes he’d brought his glasses with him, wishes he had _Will_ with him because it’s easy to feel confident when your best friend is even lower down the cool ladder than you are. “I should get back to my friend…”

“At least finish your beer,” Shirtless gestures to the bottle that’s barely two sips emptier than it was when he pressed it into Patrick’s hand. “You earned it. You start fights in clubs often?”

“Only with the assholes,” Patrick snaps, a weird little thrill of pride sparking in his gut as Shirtless laughs - an explosive little snort that sees him choking on his mouthful of beer - his shoulder a solid thump into Patrick’s as he nudges him sharply in playful reproach. He’s… Okay, he’s cute, Patrick decides, swallowing another mouthful of beer - not so bad now he’s adjusted to the taste, though he’d still say he prefers wine coolers if anyone asks - he’s got nice eyes, whisky-bright framed with thick, dark lashes. Pretty mouth, too, and Patrick’s trying - and failing - not to stare at all of that toffee-and-licorice skin out on display.

He stays, drinking beer with actual - _sort of_ \- rock stars. Every time he tries to leave, to head back into the club and find Will, someone snags his suspenders or his sleeve and tugs him back. _Someone_ is usually Shirtless who he learns - from hearing others call his name, not because he has the fucking good sense to do something as normal as introduce himself - is called Pete. Which means he’s _that_ Pete. Pete Wentz. The guy who’s in more bands than Patrick can count on one hand, middle class hardcore darling of the fucking underground Chicago punk scene. And Patrick _hit_ him.

Okay, so, Patrick isn’t fucking _stupid,_ he knows they’re keeping him there as some kind of joke; the dumb, chubby kid in his brand new DMs that took a swing at Pete fucking _Wentz_. But at the same time they’re not being actively dickish and they’re giving him free beer so he hasn’t exactly made a huge effort to get away. They talk about politics and ask him his opinion, like he’s an actual fucking bona fide adult, he tells them he thinks Reagan is an asshole and Dixon is a fucking crook. There are cheers and clinking of bottles against his own and Pete is grinning at him in a way that makes his head swim more than the beer swilling down his throat. His pumpkin moment is approaching however as he glances at his Casio - 11:45 - Will’s mom will be here in fifteen minutes. 

“I gotta get going,” he tells no one in particular, draining the beer in his bottle and heading for the door back into the club. This time no one objects, too engrossed in a discussion about an upcoming nuclear protest march to pay much attention to a kid in shiny plaid pants and a Sex Pistols shirt. Until a hand slides, deft and sure, into the back of his pants, firm fist catching fabric and belt, warm fingers grazing over the heated flesh of his ass, hot breath, sharp with the smell of hops, against his ear.

“Hey, leaving already?” The hand in his pants turns, palm flat to his back, one finger lazily trailing over the cleft between his - sweaty, probably gross - ass cheeks. 

“I…” That’s all Patrick’s got as Pete presses in close, body heat slamming through Patrick’s shirt to scorch his back. Pete slides a tattooed arm around his waist and rolls his hips forward, a filthy parody that even someone as clueless as Patrick can pick up on. He’s fuzzy and slow with indecision, frozen to the ground. No one seems to be paying them any attention but he’s picked up that Pete’s stupid tactile from watching him with his friends, this probably doesn’t mean what Patrick’s big, dumb teenage dick is telling him it-

“You wanna… Go some place a little quieter?” Okay, maybe his big, dumb dick is right this one time. Got to be a first time for everything and Patrick’s pretty fucking stoked that this is it. A quick nod is his reply, a tiny, barely audible squeak accompanying it as Pete’s finger presses in, brushes the tight pucker hidden there. The hand withdraws, rests in the small of his back as warm lips mouth at his neck, move upwards and brush his ear so that whispered words surge electricity straight to his cock. “Good boy, come with me.”

_Some place quieter_ turns out to be the band’s shitty, rusted-and-busted Ford van, parked up close to the back doors of the club. The asphalt slick-shines with the rain, reflecting street lights and car headlights and the sparkling drops against the van windows cast weird shadows on the headliner. Patrick finds himself shoved up against Pete on a bench seat, cock thick and hard and aching in the confines of his pants as Pete stretches out beneath him. It’s cold out and Pete’s still shirtless, nipples pebbled from the chill as he grinds up against Patrick and lips seek out lips. Okay, if he’s being totally honest, Patrick’s never made out with another dude, never _really_ made out with anyone unless he’s counting the clusterfuck that was the Sally Harvey incident at homecoming. Two minutes of sloppy kissing on the dancefloor followed by a similar stretch of time out back of the gym with their hands down one another’s underwear - though she only let him _over_ the bra - until he came with an embarrassing grunt doesn’t really seem comparable to _this,_ however. 

_This_ is soft, tan skin that Patrick seems to have permission to touch, fingertips grazing over flat, male nipples as a warm velvet tongue presses to his. Pete’s hand is curved around the back of Patrick’s neck, fingers digging into his hair like a desperate plea as teeth click and lips slick and the van seems to swell and fall with their gasped breathing. Pete’s half hard, Patrick can feel it through his pants and thrusts against him with needy little grunts that pitch to whines as Pete shifts, one foot pulled up flat against the bench seat, the other braced against the floor of the van. Patrick can’t help it, reaches down and presses two fingers, hard, against Pete’s ass, right above where that hole - hot, Patrick imagines, deep and tight - is just waiting to be filled by his cock. Not that he’s done that before but oh, right now, he could imagine it. He doesn’t have a condom but what does it fucking matter, it’s not like he can knock Pete up.

“Can I suck your dick?” The words tumble from him unchecked and he winces at how fucking _pathetic_ they sound, pushes his lips hard against Pete’s once more to hide his embarrassment. _Who asks?_ He admonishes himself sharply. 

Pete’s forced to mumble his answer around a mouthful of Patrick’s tongue but his frantic nodding is enough, the way his nails sink into Patrick’s ass and he ruts up like a screaming promise, _“Fuck yeah,_ you can.”

He scrambles backwards, biting kisses into the thorns that loop between starkly defined collarbones, pauses to lick at one of those dark nipples, flipping his tongue sloppily over the nub then moving lower. Pete tastes salt-bright with sweat, burning with deliciously vibrant heat as he pulls at Patrick’s hair and yanks at his own zipper, freeing his cock with an ease no doubt borne of the many times that fell before it. Patrick’s on his knees on the van floor, the press of it rough against the tender flesh even through his pants, a quick fumble and his own cock slaps against his palm as he shock-shudders at the sudden contact. He rubs his thumb over the tip, slicks the mess there and swirls it over the head with a shivering sigh. Then, with cautious reverence, he slides his free hand around Pete’s shaft.

It’s thick, he notes, curving up lust-dark and blood-hot, pearl white shining at the head. He smells of hot male skin, of sweat and lust and... _Fuck,_ is what Patrick thinks, but that’s not what he’ll say, he’s sure, as his mouth opens and, “... Fuck.”

“Come _on,_ Baby P,” Pete groans, one hand tangled in his jet black ‘hawk, the other threaded through the golden strands of Patrick’s hair and for a second, Patrick considers biting him. “Don’t be a fucking cock-tease, man.”

_Okay,_ Patrick thinks, eyes sliding between Pete’s desperate, needing face and his twitching, leaking cock and, “Okay,” Patrick says with a brisk, businesslike nod, “yeah, I… Yeah.”

And with that, he does it, presses out his tongue and, with more enthusiasm than finesse, licks a broad stripe from the base of Pete’s cock to the head. Pete shudders, whole body vibrating as Patrick pauses, considers the taste - salt bitter tang that stains his tongue and makes his cock twitch against his flexing fingers - and, heart thrumming as loud and fast as the drums in the club, slides his mouth over the head of Pete’s cock, still fumbling clumsily with his own inside his shorts.

Patrick learns several things over the course of the next few minutes. Patrick learns that sucking dick isn’t as simple as it looked on the grainy porno tape Will had stolen from under his parents’ bed. She made that whole sucking, bobbing, licking thing look fucking _simple_ but he’s kind of starting to suspect this may be a skill that requires at least some level of practice. He’s also quickly discovered that the whole deep throat thing is fucking _bullshit_ as he gagged and spluttered and Pete muttered a faintly alarmed _don’t barf on my fucking dick, dude._

His hand is shoved down the front of his pants, sticky and wet with come but he’s still tugging at his still-not-quite-soft dick even though he blew his load at least five minutes ago because - what? - he’s just going to _admit_ that he got off that fast? Besides, there’s nowhere to wipe off aside from his pants or the bench seat and he’s not sure how he feels about that so he just runs his hand through the slick mess and tries not to think about it. 

But, he knows he likes giving head, knows there’s a special kind of power in sucking on Pete’s cock, urging moans and soft little yelping cries from a blood-stained mouth with smacking lips and the rough stroke of his palm against tender flesh. Yeah, this is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen - not that he has a huge frame of reference beyond Sally Harvey and the stupid porno - Pete sprawled out and panting, hips straining, cock spit-slick under Patrick’s swollen, fuck-flushed lips. He’s going to be jacking it thinking about this for the next twelve goddamn _years,_ he’s pretty sure.

Pete is yanking at Patrick’s hair and growling low in the back of his throat, hips rocking steadily into Patrick’s mouth as he sucks clumsily, come-slicked fingers of his free hand moving to bite into Pete’s muscular thigh. He can feel the strain of Pete’s cock in his mouth, can run his tongue over the vivid surge of veins that stand out further as Pete tenses below him, as he twitches against Patrick’s tongue and, with a sharp, high noise, taps urgently on the back of Patrick’s head.

Patrick has no idea what that means, doesn’t understand the unspoken warning, just sucks a little harder, squeezes the solid weight of Pete’s shaft a little more firmly and then, with a desperate moan from above him, he feels the hot pulse of Pete’s come filling his mouth. He freezes, blinks up at Pete in surprise with wide eyes and Pete, eyes half-closed, groans out a desperate, “Shit, Baby P…” in response, holding Patrick’s head steady as he fucks out the last of his orgasm into the warm, willing pull of Patrick’s lips. 

He flops back onto the seat with a tremulous sigh, forearm slung over his eyes as he breathes deeply. Patrick pulls off and, after a moment of consideration, swallows down the bitter-sharp flood with a shiver. He’s pretty sure that went okay. Not brilliantly, but okay. 

_“Well,_ Baby P,” Pete groans. “That was pretty rad.”

“Don’t fucking _call_ me that,” Patrick objects, braced back against the seat in front of them. It’s half-assed, he thinks he might actually sort of like the nickname.

“C’mere,” Pete murmurs, arm outstretched as he shuffles up against the seat with a groan. His cock is still lolling out of his pants, half hard and still faintly shining in the low light with spit and come. Patrick complies and slides onto the bench next to him, welcomes teasing kisses and a delicate tongue that traces the tender planes of his mouth, that licks against his own and tastes of beer and cigarettes. “Okay, let’s see what we can do for you…”

Pete’s hand is sliding into Patrick’s unfastened pants and, for a second he forgets, doesn’t think to stop him before his fingers find the sticky mess of his shorts. Pete pauses, confused, eyebrows raised and mohawk flopping into his eyes and Patrick, for a heart-pounding second, wants to cry at how fucking ridiculous he feels, humiliation burning his chest, searing across his cheeks as he stares down at Pete’s looping thorns, tracing them with an absent fingertip.

“I… I just…”

“You’re fucking _adorable,”_ Pete cuts him off with another burst of ugly laughter and twinkling eyes. 

Patrick’s watch beeps - 12:15 - he’s so late. He shuffles and staggers to his feet, ducking to avoid the roof of the van as he fastens his pants and ignores the wet patch, ignores Pete’s questioning gaze as he rights his clothes and moves towards the doors at the back of the van, “I gotta go… My friend… His mom’s giving us a ride back.”

“His mom?” Pete repeats with a raised eyebrow that makes Patrick’s stomach lurch like the bottom falling out of an elevator. “Baby P… _How_ old are you?”

For a second, Patrick thinks about lying. He could pass for college-age easily enough. But it’s not like he’s going to see Pete again so he shrugs out his answer like it doesn’t matter - because it _doesn’t_ matter, “Seventeen.”

“That’s…” Pete pauses for an uncomfortable second as he shoves his dick back into his jeans. “That’s legal, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, hand already on the door. “I won’t, like, _tell_ everyone and embarrass you or anything like that.”

Pete doesn’t reply for the longest time, enough time for Patrick to tug furiously at the door until he realises it’s push not pull, enough time for him to descend the steps and be halfway towards closing the door after him, “Hey, Baby P?”

“Yeah?”

“See you around?” It sounds like a fucking Coke advert and Pete’s going to toss him his shirt with a grin. It reads as an invitation though Patrick isn’t sure how that could work. Not that it matters. He’s going to be grounded for the rest of his _life_ when his mom realises he snuck out - and she _will_ realise he snuck out, Patricia Stumph is not a woman to be fucked with - besides, it’s not like he has any way to get in touch with Pete again. 

So he smiles, a little burst of pride bright and warm in his chest that Pete would even think to say it, his grin wide and shining as he shrugs and calls over his shoulder, “Not if I see you first.”

As he jogs to the front of the club and slips into Will’s mom’s station wagon, ears burning with her scolding and cheeks burning from Will’s glare, he huddles down into the collar of his jacket and grins. He touches his lips with the tips of two fingers, as though he can conjure up Pete’s mouth against his once more. 

It was a good night, he thinks, a really fucking good night.


	2. Does Barry Manilow Know You Raid His Wardrobe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick makes a new friend and Pete learns just how long he can hold his breath...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back to 1986. Grab a Classic Coke, put on your legwarmers and turn up Cyndi Lauper! 
> 
>  
> 
> The _stunning_ artwork is the creation of the wonderful [Das_verlorene_Kind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind) and you can follow her [HERE](http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr which really, you should do right away because she's ridiculously talented.
> 
> The chapter title is an immortal line from Bender in The Breakfast Club. If you haven't watched it before, consider it your homework for next week.

“So she didn’t ground you?” Will asks, adjusting his hair in the bathroom mirror.

 

It’s second period gym class and yeah, okay, Patrick gets it, he shouldn’t cut class. But it’s track and field and he’s good at neither so they’re hiding, hanging out in the bathroom and waiting for the bell. His Adidas track jacket and matching shorts are pristine, snowy white - a testament to exactly how little they’ve seen of either track _or_ field - his knee high tube socks, with the red band to match the red stripes of his sportswear, just as brilliantly perfect. The outfit is finished off with barely worn Reeboks that squeak against the tile floor and, okay, yeah, he looks like some kind of ridiculous, preppy asshole but his mom insisted and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by refusing.

 

“Nah,” he shakes his head, examining the poster behind Will; AIDS, NEW RULES FOR SAFE SEX. He wonders how long _that’s_ been hung there, it’s edges curling slightly from sun damage and steam from the showers. There’s an uncomfortable little knot in his gut as he tries to read it subtly over Will’s shoulder - is that something he should be worrying about? - but he quickly shakes it off and continues. “I managed to get back through the basement window without her hearing me.”

 

He misses out the part where he’d shuffled out of his pants and shorts and dropped them straight into the washing machine, carefully buried there so his mom wouldn’t find them and question the stains streaking the crotch.

 

“Nice,” Will nods his approval, fiddling with the zipper of his track jacket - Puma, blue, little white cat leaping across his chest - and Patrick marvels at the difference twelve hours can make. How has he made the switch from cool punk, on his knees for a fucking _rock star_ , to well-dressed high school kid fresh from a John Hughes movie. He glances at Will in the mirror, fiddling with his neatly combed, carefully parted hair before speaking hesitantly.

 

“So, last night…” He begins casually, examining his nails.

 

“Unless you’re gonna fucking _apologise_ for bouncing me...” Will trails off with a frown. Patrick feels bad but, like, come on! It was Pete fucking Wentz.

 

“Oh, take a fucking chill pill, man!” He snaps irritably. “I had reasons, I… Okay, so you know the bassist from Arma?”

 

“The dude you _totally_ punched in the face?” Will rolls his eyes with a theatrical sigh. “No, duh.”

 

“Whatever, dude,” Patrick moves to the mirrors himself and finger combs his hair. He hates it, hates how it requires so much effort to coax it into the lame, centre-parted John Cusack flop his mom always insists on when she drags him to the salon. It fucking _sucks_ having a mom that wants to dress him like a member of the goddamn brat pack. His heart is pounding which is ridiculous, this is just _Will_ , he told him all about the Sally incident, why should this be any fucking different. “I…”

 

“You...?” Will mimics his tone, bored and indifferent. “Ditched me to go hang with them? Yeah, I know.”

 

“Yeah? Well,” Patrick clenches his hands into fists against the sink and stares at himself very hard in the mirror, anything to avoid looking at Will even if it means he’s got a front row seat for how red he’s turning. “Got to fucking _third base_ with him.”

 

There’s a pause, loaded, breath held and skin tingling, when Will doesn’t speak. Patrick can sense him turning to look at him, can feel the weight of his dark eyes burning into the side of his face. His fingers flex against the porcelain as he examines the drain very closely and waits, not moving, not even daring to breathe, for his friend to react. He’s half expecting to get punched, almost certain he’s going to be called a fucking faggot and that the whole school will know by third period. What he’s _not_ expecting is the derisive snort of laughter.

 

“Ch’yeah, I’m _so sure,”_ Will laughs, running a hand through his hair and pausing to examine a pimple on his cheek.

 

“Dude, I kid you not, he took me out back to their van,” Patrick protests, because suddenly, it’s important that Will believes him since he barely believes it himself. 

 

Will, unsurprisingly, is staring at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind, eyes wide and lips moving like he _wants_ to form actual words but they’re misfiring somewhere between his brain and his tongue. Patrick, for his part, is willing him to please just think of something to say before he’s forced to smash his head off the edge of the sink just so the conversation has a jump board.

 

“So,” Will begins, uncomfortable in that way that teenage boys always are about their sexuality when confronted with anything outside of the norms that porn, TV and middle class suburbia presents them with. “You weren’t kidding about the whole bi _thing?”_

 

“You thought I _was?”_ Patrick is incredulous, face screwed up, hand waving airily as he declares in a regal sort of tone. “ _God_ , Will, would you, like… _Listen_ to yourself for a second? We’re not _all_ tied down by some fucking _bourgeois_ , dated notion of rigidly defined sexuality like some kind of ridiculous yuppie asshole.”

 

“He used a condom though, right?” Will questions cattily, only a faint thread of jealousy apparent in his voice as he nods to the poster Patrick had tried to read earlier. “Says there sucking dick without one is _risky_ behaviour…”

 

“What makes you think I sucked his dick?” Patrick queries, voice tight with irritation at the presumptive smirk spreading slowly across Will’s face. “Maybe he sucked mine.”

 

“Right,” Will shines bright with barely suppressed jealousy, boils over with unrestrained sarcasm. “And did he? Suck _your_ dick?”

 

Silence measures out in heartbeats and glares as the two scowl at one another’s reflections in the mirrors. Two Patricks glaring resentfully at two jealous Wills. Emotions reflected and magnified and bounced back and forth again and again like particles of light.

 

“Shut up, Will,” Patrick snaps, straightening as the bell rings and heading back for the locker room, waving a hand dismissively at the poster. “It’s all just fucking government controlled bullshit, anyway.”

 

“Hmm,” Will’s look is loaded like bullets, dark eyes narrowed as he flicks a final glance in the mirror with a sigh. “Coconuts after school?”

 

“You know it,” Patrick grins broadly, accepting the peace offering and pleased that, at least momentarily, everything is back to normal, that the ground is solid beneath his feet and Will is dorky at his side. “Allowance day, man.”

 

*

 

They make their way through the store in companionable silence, Coconuts has always been a powerhouse of popular teen culture, a standing testament to neon clad kids with ridiculous perms buying Duran Duran and Bananarama tapes. But that’s not what Patrick and Will came for, no, they’re heading to the back of the store, to row upon row of utterly delicious vinyl and neatly ordered cassette tapes under a banner of _Alt/Rock/Punk_. There’s a smaller selection of compact discs but Patrick has no interest in those. They lose the sound he adores, the smokey crackles and pops of vinyl, the sound of a slightly stretched cassette, these idiosyncrasies are part of the whole experience for Patrick. Prising a shiny plastic disc from a small plastic case just doesn’t hold the same overwhelming charm that comes from slipping a record from its sleeve, lifting it free with reverence and placing it gently onto the turntable. 

 

Will likes CDs though, he’s ridiculously convinced they’re going to be the future of music but Patrick, well, he’s not so sure.

 

Patrick’s wallet is burning a hole in his jacket pocket - not his leather jacket, his mom won’t let him wear that for school. No, right now he’s in Chess King’s finest, his tweed blazer rolled up to reveal his forearms, button down shirt sleeves rolled over the top of the blazer cuffs. His chinos are tight, but not too tight, and his shoes, possibly the only cool thing about his outfit, the only thing that doesn’t scream _my mom still buys my clothes_ , are stack-soled creepers, lending him an extra inch or so. He still looks like Duckie goddamn Dale though.

 

Unlike the dude that just reached for the same copy - the _only_ fucking copy - of an original UK pressing of Mad Not Mad. But Patrick is quicker, swiping it from under a hand clad in fingerless gloves and snatching it to his chest as though the other guy will grab it from him without hesitation. He’s taller than Patrick, even in the creepers, clad in the effortless cool of a baggy plaid shirt over chain-bedecked cargo pants and heavy, calf-high combat boots. His hair is amazing, a huge mass of curls like some kind of fucking rock god conjured to the punk section of a suburban Coconuts by dark magic. For a moment Patrick thinks he might take a swipe at the album as his hand darts forward, as a pair of the brightest, bluest eyes Patrick’s ever seen rove over him with disdain and Patrick dares him with a burning glance to _just fucking try it_. The moment passes and he pauses, lets his hand drop to his side as he curls his lip into a sneer.

 

“Yeah,” he pats the record clutched in Patrick’s hands, voice burning with patronising sarcasm. _“You_ need that, of course you do. Wouldn’t you be a little more comfortable in the pop section?”

 

“Possibly, later,” Patrick bites back. “I never really saw the sense in limiting myself to one fucking genre like some kind of slave to fucking commercialist _bullshit_. Now back the fuck up and let me take a look on that shelf behind you. There’s a Japanese press of Pearl Harbour three inches from your dumb fucking face that I’d like to take a look at.”

 

“Yeah, _right_ …” The other kid laughs, disbelieving, his confidence faltering slightly as he turns to the shelf behind him, reaching to flick through the sleeves with a frown as Patrick narrows his eyes in bare-faced challenge. “No way, that’s rare as fucking rocking horse shit, there’s no _way_ … Dude… How the fuck did you even _see_ that?”

 

“I know music,” Patrick snaps disdainfully, holding out his hand for the record. _A damn sight more than you_ , hangs unspoken in the air between them. The kid presses it onto his palm with a shake of his head. Then, with the bright shine of a beaming grin, the veneer of animosity melts away, his face bursting into animated camaraderie as he slings an arm around Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick flinches a little, anticipating the slap to the back of the head, the trip, the punch to the stomach, prepares to fight back but it doesn’t arrive, just a babble of noise as the kid begins a rant that’s more like a stream of consciousness. He rambles about bands; local bands, big bands, old bands and modern bands, music he loves, music he wants to love, music he can’t stand, he talks and he talks and Patrick can barely get a word in until, with a stumble of syllables, he grinds to a halt.

 

“Shit, dude,” he holds out his hand, bizarrely formal when Patrick’s spent the past five minutes pressed into his armpit. “I’m Joseph. Joe. My mom’s always saying I’ve got no fucking manners.”

 

“Patrick,” he shakes the offered hand, warm with the promise of possible friendship. A _cool_ friend. He risks a glance over the racks at Will, finds him watching him with barely concealed furious jealousy from behind his curtain of dark hair and the cover of a The Smiths record. It’s not his fault, he reminds himself, he’s not doing anything wrong by trying to break away from the constraints of Glenbrook High. But he still feels guilty, still ducks his head a little so that Will disappears behind the rack, out of sight, out of mind. 

 

“Do I, like, _know you_ from somewhere?” Joe takes half a step back, realisation dawning as his eyes widen and he pats Patrick shoulder frantically, like he thinks he’ll disappear if he doesn’t maintain some kind of body contact at all times. “I fucking _do_ , you play drums for Patterson, right? I saw you at the battle of the bands at the community centre! You’re fucking _awesome_ , dude!”

 

“I _did,”_ Patrick shrugs, it’s no big deal, it’s high school and band line ups change like underwear. No harm, no foul. It’s not like he left under a black cloud following a completely pointless argument and a fist fight about jazz music. He doesn’t even really care that much about jazz but… He was _right_ , goddammit, that asshole _deserved_ a bust nose. “I’m… Between projects right now.”

 

“But you’re looking for a new one?” Joe is scrabbling in the pocket of his denim jacket for a pen. There’s a The Jam patch over his left bicep that’s dangerously close to losing the last couple of stitches holding it in place, Patrick notes absently, watching as Joe scrawls his number onto a scrap of paper. He folds it and tucks it into the breast pocket of Patrick’s shirt - apparently personal space isn’t a big deal for him - smiling so wide and bright it’s almost blinding. “I’ve got a buddy, he’s looking for a drummer, we’re starting something new, it’s gonna be fucking _huge_ , dude. Think you’d be interested?”

 

“Yeah,” Joe’s looking at him like he’s Tommy fucking Ramone, shoving the pen and another scrap of paper into his hands in unspoken invitation that Patrick accepts, scrawling his own name and number and handing it back. “Totally, man. Count me in.”

 

“Who was he?” Will hisses after Joe has left, the copy of Pearl Harbour tucked into a bag and a wide grin on his face. Patrick can wait for another copy and it’s sort of nice to be nice. He can’t help but think that _maybe_ , since he let him have the album, _maybe_ Joe will make good on his promise about an audition. The burn of blazing blood still flows through him from the Arma Angelus show and the thought of being the one on stage, the drums laid out in front of him, screaming guitars and throbbing bass… _Maybe._

 

“Him?” Patrick shrugs nonchalantly. “Just some kid. Billy Joel, dude? _Seriously?”_

 

*

 

Patrick would like to say he’s forgotten all about Joe from Coconuts when several weeks go by without a call. That would be a total lie. His mom is fastidious about taking down messages and whilst the little yellow sticky notes frequently appear with Will’s name scored in her flowing handwriting, it’s never anyone else, never anyone _interesting._

 

It was probably just sweet talk to get the copy of Pearl Harbour.

 

He’s morose, sprawled on the couch in front of Batman, eating dry Lucky Charms from the box on a sunny Saturday morning. Yeah, it’s childish but what the hell? Might as well enjoy as much of this behaviour as he can squeeze in before college. He crams another handful of sugar and carbs into his mouth and wonders idly if he has enough time to jerk off before his mom gets back from her power walk. He’s not _hugely_ horny but that’s not to say… 

 

He’s cut off by the doorbell ringing - Will, presumably - and hauls himself to his feet, padding to the front door in his socks, shoving his glasses a little further up the bridge of his nose. He swings it open with a cheerful greeting, “Dude, this better be good, I was just about to jack…”

 

It’s not Will. 

 

There, on his doorstep, is Joe, a look on his face that can only be described as horrified amusement. Patrick wants to die, a sinkhole swallowing his house would be fucking _gnarly_ right about now.

 

“Patrick!” Joe greets him with enthusiasm and a hug and Patrick dies a little inside whilst he wishes he was wearing anything - fucking _anything_ \- other than the bright red polyester tracksuit, resplendent with blocks of blue, yellow, green and white across the jacket. He only owns one cool outfit and that’s hanging in his closet ready for the next time he has somewhere to wear it, this is the best he’s got, the kind of thing his mom buys for him and he feels completely ridiculous. He want to demand a do over, wants to run to his room and drag on the plaid and chains and open the door feeling vaguely cool. “We were just in the neighbourhood, figured we’d stop by. But if you’re _busy_ ….”

 

Masturbating. He means if Patrick is busy touching himself because that’s what he just fucking _told him_ he was about to do. Wait, _we?_

 

Patrick peers around the door with bated breath burning in his lungs, preparing to lock eyes with another, infinitely cooler teen and dreading it like Monday mornings. But it’s worse than that, oh, it’s worse than Patrick could ever have anticipated. Behind Joe, lounging all louche and sexy, is Pete fucking _Wentz_. 

 

He looks a little different with no product in his mohawk, the thick mess of hair falling onto his brow. He’s wearing a little more than the last time Patrick saw him; the same skinny jeans and Chucks but topped with a studded belt, a Bad Religion shirt that clings to every line of his chest and a heavily studded leather jacket that looks butter soft with wear thrown over the top. He slides his Ray-Bans down his nose and regards Patrick from over the top of the frames, handsome face a picture of doubt and disdain from narrowed amber eyes to the flat line of that permanently unimpressed mouth.

 

Jesus fucking _Christ_ , why didn’t Joe mention that his friend was Pete Wentz?

 

“No,” Patrick stammers, flushing the same shade as his tracksuit as Joe and Pete step inside after him. He makes a silent pact with himself right then and there, God as his witness, that his next allowance is going on jeans and band shirts. “Not busy just… Watching TV.”

 

Their eyes flick simultaneously to the TV in the living room, Batman playing loudly and Patrick, once again, wants to die. What is he? Eight? Pete looks faintly amused, kind of pissed off but mostly bored and Patrick waits with breathless humiliation for the _Baby P_ bullshit to commence. It doesn’t come. Instead, Pete is frowning at him as he slips off his sunglasses, as he folds them and slides them into his pocket, like he can’t quite place him and Patrick isn’t sure if it’s worse to be recognised and ridiculed or forgotten and scorned.

 

“Do I… know you from somewhere?” Pete asks doubtfully, as though he can’t possibly countenance as scenario in which he might have become acquainted with a loser like Patrick. A thought seems to occur to him as he continues dubiously. “Wait, have you got, like, a sister I’ve dated or something?”

 

Something in Patrick’s chest is hurting; was he that easy to misplace, down on his knees on a dirty van floor with Pete’s cock in his mouth? Hurt and humiliated, he feels the ever-familiar anger that seems to lurk, never far from the surface. Fuck Pete Wentz, “Yeah, I’ve got a sister, I doubt she’s dated _you_ though.”

 

“Oh, really?” Pete arches an eyebrow and Patrick can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed. “And why’s that?”

 

“She’s Pre Law at Yale,” Patrick snaps, suspecting that might just hit the middle class asshole playing at punk where it hurts, right in the family pride. Well, it’s that or hit him directly in the face and he’s been warned about doing that in the house. Anyway, Megan absolutely _isn’t_ Pre Law at Yale, she’s Pysch at Northwestern, but Pete doesn’t need to know that. “I really don’t think she’d be into someone like,” he pauses to run his eyes critically over Pete, the same look Pete gave him from behind his Ray-Bans, finishing with as much spiteful disdain as he can muster, _“You.”_

 

Pete’s eyebrow quirks but beyond that, he barely reacts as he hitches his shoulders in a shrug, “Hey, I just couldn’t figure out where I recognised you from. Chill, man. No need to wig out.”

 

If that’s supposed to soothe Patrick, to calm him and make him feel better then it’s falling woefully short of the mark. Anger and embarrassment battle in his gut for dominance, the flush brightening on his cheeks as he presses his hands into fists. It’s instinct, preparing to swing a punch, to fight back, to let everyone know he’s not just some pathetic, snivelling little kid. _See you around?_ Yeah, _right_. 

 

Was the blowjob really that forgettable? Is _he_ really that forgettable? He’d been vulnerable - okay, mostly horny, but still, a little vulnerable - down on his knees in the van. He doesn’t like to admit the element of _please like me_ that was there, bright in his eyes. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the little spark of disappointment that flickered in him the following morning when it hit him that Pete hadn’t asked for his number, hadn’t offered his own. But, yeah, like, _whatever_ , he’s getting over it and now, by some incredibly unfair twist of fate he’s standing in Patrick’s hallway with his eyes flicking over school pictures and - please God, _no_ \- the holiday portraits his mom insists on every year. A terrible testament to bad taste festive knitwear and slicked down altar boy hair.

 

“How did you know where I live?” He rounds on Joe furiously. “Who the fuck doesn’t _call?”_

 

Joe steps back, hands up in defence and blue eyes wide and Pete - that goddamn asshole - steps a little closer to last year’s holiday picture with a tiny smirk, reaching for it with tanned fingers that Patrick’s felt oh-so-briefly around the sticky heat of his half-hard cock. _“Don’t fucking touch that!”_

 

Pete’s hand falls back to his side, the smirk a little wider and Patrick realises he just gave him another button to press as he murmurs a not remotely apologetic, “Sorry, dude, just looking… bitchin’ sweater by the way.”

 

Patrick is so close to lashing out, he can feel it, tight heat creeping through his veins as he scowls at Pete like a whispered threat. His nails bite into his palms with sharp intent, fists tight at his sides and it would be easy, so fucking easy, to just take a swing, feel his knuckles connect and skin split and give.

 

“I lost your number,” Joe slings an arm around Patrick’s shoulder as he drops his guitar case to the floor, either completely unfazed by his barely concealed furious rage or, judging by the overwhelming smell of weed caught in the cotton of his shirt, completely oblivious to it. “But I remembered your name - weird name, Stumph - you were easy enough to find in the phonebook and then we had an address so… This seemed easier. Is now a bad time?”

 

A bad time? _A bad time?_ Patrick’s dressed head to toe in brightly coloured polyester and just announced he was about to masturbate as he opened the door. And - he feels he can’t repeat this enough in his head - Joe’s friend is _Pete fucking Wentz_. It’s the very _worst_ of all possible times and places in this universe and any alternate ones surrounding it, he’s living the worst day of his life, of that much he is entirely and unshakably sure. 

 

He _could_ send them away, retreat to his Lucky Charms and the Caped Crusader and lick his wounds, soothe his injured pride and remind himself that at least neither of them go to Glenbrook. But he knows if he allows anger and hurt pride to win, his chance of joining their stupid fucking band will walk out of the door with them. How many more bands can Pete feasibly throw together anyway? Is he really that desperate for validation that he’s scratching around for _high school kids_ to join his ridiculous fucking vanity projects? 

 

Whatever. Patrick needs a band and at least Joe seems cool.

 

“No,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Now’s fine.”

 

“Awesome, man,” Joe’s bursts into a grin like starlight, his free hand clapping Pete on the shoulder. “Told you he was fucking radical, didn’t I?”

 

“You did,” Pete agrees with another of those slow, knowing smirks, the same he’d tossed at Patrick across the backstage room in VOID. The same look that nearly earned him the sharp reprimand of a knee to the crotch. Patrick’s charitable feelings, garnered in eager touches and head-spinning kisses in the dim gloom of a Ford E-Series, are evaporating like summer rainwater from the sidewalk. “Where we doing this?”

 

“The basement, my kit’s down there.” And no one would find the bodies for weeks, he reminds himself silently, leading the way with a scowl. Pete’s amusement rolls from him in waves that lap over Patrick, that drag the blush a little higher up his cheeks, that make it flush brighter and hotter until he’s sure he’s just going to collapse into a puddle of humiliated fury.

 

“Wow,” Joe enthuses brightly as Patrick’s kit comes into view. A smug little spark of pride ignites in his stomach as he pauses just to take it in, like he does every time. 

 

When he’d asked for a drum kit his mom had taken him to the stupid cookie cutter music store in Glenview. The place that sold rack after rack of cheap stratocasters and beginners kits. Those were not what Patrick had in mind and he’d committed himself to researching everything, to finding out what would be the very best he could get. He’d spent hours going over ideas with his music teacher, drooling over magazines and calling every independent music store in - and quite a large area around - Chicago.

 

All his, every element carefully sourced from the vintage Pearl kit, mahogany of course and finished in beautifully maintained pearl white casing. Each cymbal carefully planned and discussed, all from Sabian, all delivered in snowy-white packages stamped with the FedEx logo, all for him. His mom fretted that the kit wasn’t new, in reality he was surprised she hadn’t fainted at the price, but it was perfect. It was everything he wanted and far too good to take to shows at inauspicious community centres. If Joe thought he could drum on the shitty practice kit briefly liberated from the school’s music room then wait until he hears him on this.

 

Irritatingly, Pete doesn’t seem impressed. In fact, he seems faintly amused again, the physical embodiment of a teasing eye roll like Patrick is just adorable in the most unfathomably frustrating ways. It’s there in the way he looks over the kit and clucks his tongue softly against the roof of his mouth, the way his lips tuck up into a smirk as Patrick takes a seat. And - here’s the thing - Patrick’s hold on his temper is fraying. It’s stretching taut and tight, each delicate thread snapping back one by one by one… 

 

The next minutes are lost to setting up, not that Patrick needs to do much, each drum, each cymbal is lovingly placed and at just the right angle. He’s meticulous to the point it’s pissed off every other person in every band he’s ever played in - including marching band - but this is why he sounds good and they sound like shit. So fuck them. 

 

They run through a couple of songs that Pete and Joe have had the luxury of practising and Patrick - no, duh - has not. He refuses to struggle, improvises the parts he doesn’t really know, adds flourishes and rolls to cover any fuck ups he might make although, he acknowledges with a smirk of his own, he’s a _way_ better drummer than Pete is a bassist. But he’s still pushed hard, sweating and panting in his jacket but he’s not going to shrug it off, not when he knows there’s a fucking Snoopy t-shirt underneath. He wears it to sleep in, _okay_ , it’s not like he _knew_ Joe would show up today. 

 

Joe and his friend. His friend Pete. Pete with a dick tucked away in skinny jeans that Patrick has seen, that he’s licked and sucked and - oh God, the memories are excruciating - did he fucking _kiss_ it at one point? Shit. It’s probably for the best Pete _doesn’t_ remember a thing. 

 

“Okay, enough,” Joe throws his guitar strap over his head and abandons it on the couch. “You’re fucking out of sight, man. Pete’s just fucking with you now.”

 

Pete is _still_ smirking, tossing his hawk out of his eyes from where it’s fallen in messy bangs that - in spite of everything - Patrick still wants to run his fingers through. He wants to hit him, oh how badly he wants to hit him, but he also wants to drag him down onto the couch and just _touch_ him, to lick over his tattoos and bite bruises into his neck. He wants Pete to slide to his knees, to pull down the ridiculous tracksuit pants and frame his cock with that smirk. 

 

“Yo! Earth to Patrick?” His lungs tighten and his heart sets up a messy thrum as he swings his attention to Joe. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , was he staring? Please, God, say he wasn’t staring. Amber eyes still twinkle with the kind of knowing amusement that could be smacked off his face so easily and Patrick doesn’t know how much he’s given away, if anything, with hungry looks and bitten lips. “Could I have a glass of water, dude?”

 

“What?” The words take too long to make sense and Patrick is panicked, knows he looks ridiculous, can’t help it. “Oh. Yeah. Right… I’ll… Pete?” The name tastes good against his tongue and he wants to soften to him, because - yeah, he gets it - he looks completely unrecognisable with John Cusack hair and thick glasses, it’s not necessarily Pete’s fault that he doesn’t recognise him. “Can I… You want anything? Beer?”

 

The offer is made hopefully as he thinks of his brother’s stash of Miller Light in the garage, that makes him look cool, right? Just casually handing out beer like that’s what he offers all of his guests. Yeah, that’s something a cool kid would do. 

 

“Nah,” Pete shrugs, barely glancing up from his bass as he changes a broken string. “I was gonna ask if I could smoke but,” his eyes raise slowly, dragging over Patrick with amusement, like he’s some cute fucking _puppy_ performing tricks, “you look pretty flammable so…”

 

Something deep inside Patrick tells him to calm down, tells him to take a deep breath and ask himself if violence is ever really the answer. That part of Patrick is very noble and, he has to admit, very sensible. That’s the part that will fill in the college application forms. 

 

Unfortunately, there’s another, angrier part of Patrick that lurks much closer to the surface just waiting to stumble from the murk. _That’s_ the part that launches him across the room before anyone else can react. _That’s_ the part that hurls him onto the couch, slamming Pete’s bass to the floor so he can throw himself on top of him. _That’s_ the part with both hands wrapped around a golden throat, thumbs pressed to a twitching windpipe as he snarls, “Fuck you, fuck your attitude and fuck your fucking band, asshole!”

 

Pete makes satisfying little whining _nee nee_ noises on each attempted inhale and pathetic little spluttering _uck uck_ sounds each time he tries to breathe out. His eyes bulge and his cheeks flush and he scratches pathetically at Patrick’s hands as a quiet, _stuck up_ , voice somewhere inside Patrick asks, _now what, asshole?_ He hasn’t thought this through, he should let go, his mom’s going to kill him if he murders someone in the basement…

 

Strong arms are looped through his and he’s hauled backwards, pulled to the floor as he spits insults at Pete. They’re random, chockful of _asshole_ and _motherfucker_ and, it shames him to admit, _fucking fag_ , but Pete, slowly swinging back up and massaging his neck, doesn’t seem to notice. Joe’s laughing - fucking _laughing_ \- like the whole thing is hilarious and Patrick sits on the rug and wonders if he could kick the shit out of that asshole too until he speaks, “You fucking deserved that, Wentz. Totally.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete wheezes, shaking his head with a weak grin. “Sorry, dude. I’m just… Just fucking _playing_ , like, don’t have a fucking _cow_ …”

 

“You’re not funny, asshole,” Patrick assures him, knees drawn up to his chest and cheek stinging where Pete’s nails raked down it. “You think you’re Eddie Murphy but you’re Jerry fucking Seinfeld. You’re old guy funny. My _dad_ likes fucking Seinfeld.”

 

“Dude,” Joe calls from across the room. “You play?”

 

He’s holding out Patrick’s acoustic guitar with the kind of smile that suggests he hopes it’s not going to be broken across the back of his head. Patrick considers shaking his head - he’s auditioning as a drummer, he doesn’t want to be a guitarist - but he doesn’t want to look any more ridiculous than he does already. So he reaches for it with a sigh and a shrug, “Just covers. Impressions. You know? Stupid let’s-impress-grandma shit.”

 

“Shit, you _sing?”_ Pete’s sitting up a little straighter, eyes a little sharper like he might just be starting to take Patrick seriously.

 

“Whoa,” Patrick holds up a hand as he runs his fingers over the frets. “Impressions. Let’s not get fucking carried away, dickweed.”

 

“Well _impersonate_ me a fucking singer,” Pete rolls his eyes and goes right back to looking bored. Patrick frowns, his hackles raised as he sneers and launches into Love Will Tear Us Apart. _Another_ , Pete demands and, with a scowl, he obliges with Life On Mars. _Something punk_ , is the next barked instruction that he meets with an eyeroll and an over the top rendition of I Wanna Be Sedated.

 

As he closes the song to a whoop from Joe, Pete narrows his eyes speculatively, fingers drumming against his thigh - against the thigh Patrick had sunk his own fingertips into with a hand wet with come - and considers Patrick carefully. Patrick raises his chin and meets the gaze, daring Pete not to recognise him, to look straight into his eyes and fail to remember the chill of the April night, hands and mouths that had explored and tasted. There’s nothing but that same flicker of amusement as he grabs a cassette from his guitar bag and hands it to Patrick.

 

“You’re in,” he nods as he pushes to his feet. “Learn everything on that tape, I’m not sure I’m gonna fit in a rehearsal before the next show.”

 

“Show?” Patrick repeats, hating the plaintive note to his voice. “This is your _band_ , man, what’s more important? How can you not fucking rehearse before a _show?_ We’ll sound like fucking shit!”

 

“We do anyway,” Joe chips in comfortingly. Well, maybe it’s supposed to be comforting. It’s not. Patrick’s inner perfectionist - _yeah right, anal asshole_ , he can hear Will sneering - does _not_ feel comfortable with this. “I can swing by tomorrow night and we can go through some stuff? Chris, too.”

 

Chris, Joe, Pete. So many strange new faces parading through his basement, touching his stuff, laughing at his clothes. He shrugs a whatever as Pete rises lithely to his feet and heads for the stairs without a pause. It would seem he’s got a spot in whatever the fuck band it is that these two assholes have half-cooked between them. A band with no rehearsals and a show at some bar in the city. 

 

Pete is going to give him headaches, Patrick decides as he watches them retreat across the lawn and climb into Joe’s battered Corolla. But in the meantime, he has a set to learn with nothing more than a fucking cassette tape.

 

Pete should thank his fucking _ass_ that Patrick’s talented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you have a moment, and you've enjoyed it, please do hit the kudos button so I know I'm not just screaming into the ether. If you had two moments, you could leave me a comment and let me know what you think of Baby P and Punk Pete.
> 
>  
> 
> Fun fact: I couldn't have Patrick and Joe meet at Borders since there wasn't one in their area in 1986. Coconuts was a popular music chain that started life in Chicago but, as with most high street chains, it's long gone now. AIDS/HIV was very much seen as not a white/straight/middle class problem at this stage in time but I'm going to take some liberties and declare Glenbrook as relatively progressive but, in reality, the US government didn't care about HIV/AIDS until straight, white people started dying because history is full of assholes.
> 
> Have a great day and - hopefully - I'll see you back here next time!


	3. You're Kind Of Sexy When You're Angry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick learns about etiquette they don't teach you at the country club...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back! Thank you so much for coming back to read and I hope you enjoy this week's instalment. Back to Tuesdays next week, now Trick Or Pete is over. I'd like to thank the lovely laudanum_cafe for reading through this for me (not betaing, oh no) and being generally awesome at all times.
> 
> The chapter title is another line from The Breakfast Club, but you'll all know that as you've all done your homework, am I right?

_Deep breaths, in and out, it’s easy. There’s no one out there, no one that matters, it’s just guitars and bass and lyrics that thread over the beat. The drums laid out like surgical instruments, precise, perfect, gleaming, glowing under bright light. Deep breaths. Smell the sweat, taste it, it’s thick enough in the air, hangs and dances in a fine mist waiting to be inhaled._

_Deep breaths._

 

Patrick’s wrists twitch compulsively, the slick shine of sweat thick on his brow, his back, damp nerves under his arms and between his legs. His hair sticks to it, clumps and darkens against his brow and over his ears as he watches the crowd. This is it. There’s five minutes until they take the stage - assuming Pete actually shows up - and he’s nervous, chewing his lip as he recounts the songs he’s practised over and over with the cassette turned up high. Five minutes until he steps out on stage with…

 

Wait.

 

_What_ are they called, again?

 

“Joe, dude?” He hisses around a mouthful of cotton wool and a belly full of furiously fluttering butterflies. “What’s our name?”

 

“Well, you’re Patrick and I’m Joe…” Joe trails off, staring at Patrick like he’s gone insane. Maybe he has. Nerves can do that, right? He’s sure he’s read somewhere about guys, like, passing out from nerves but maybe his version is just spouting utter bullshit. Wait. He had a point.

 

“The _band,”_ he stage whispers, eyes a flicker of nervous energy as he glances from the door to the floor of the club and back again, bouncing back and forth in a desperate search for their asshole bassist and missing guitarist. “What’s the _band’s_ name?”

 

“Oh, right,” Joe stares down at his guitar for a moment, plucking out a riff before looking up with a frown.”Am I out of tune? I can’t even fucking tell anymore, man.”

 

“You’re fine,” Patrick sighs, heart _thud-thump-flopping_ in his chest as he catches sight of a messy black mohawk, as he assures himself it could be any one of the other dozen messy black mohawks scattered around the room, as the owner of the mohawk makes his way to the side of the stage.

 

Pete grins widely at Joe, drags him into a bro hug that stretches over Joe’s guitar and thumps him on the back in an overbearing display of masculinity - why doesn’t he just piss up the kid’s leg, Patrick wonders irritably. He doesn’t look at Patrick as he swings his case to the floor and lifts out his bass, quickly checking it’s in tune with - oh yeah, no rush, buddy, you just take your sweet fucking time - two minutes before they take to the stage. A catty comment barbs Patrick’s tongue, the bitter breath drawn to spit reprimands about _professionalism_ and _juvenile behaviour_ but before they can pass his lips Pete glances across at him. 

 

There’s a wonderfully satisfying moment where recognition flickers in amber eyes, where Pete looks at him, takes in the plaid pants and Black Flag shirt, the boots and chains and collar, where he sees Patrick in a way he failed to do entirely during the hour he spent in his basement. Okay, and - Patrick’s not gonna lie - it’s just a little fucking _gratifying,_ the way Pete’s jaw falls a little slack, just like it did when Patrick was sucking his dick. And it’s a little fucking _vindicating_ when his eyes spring just that bit wider as he stares, mouth open, and seems to struggle for a moment to form the words. And - Patrick thinks - it’s a little fucking _amazing_ to shoot him a lazy smile as he scratches his head with his drumsticks.

 

“Hey, Pete, what’s up, dick-” The word is bitten off abruptly as Pete, a sudden whirlwind of raging fury, springs to his feet like a goddamn cat, snatching at Patrick’s bicep in fingers that glow with the effort. Patrick’s heard of a vice-like grip before, the kind of bullshit that appears in the kind of novels they’re supposed to read for English, but he’s never actually _felt_ one before. It turns out it kind of _hurts_. He’s propelled, unwillingly, away from Joe with his shock-wide blue eyes, away from the guy that dragged him across VOID - Chris? Maybe. What does it matter? - away from everyone until he’s shoved into a dark corner against the wall. “Let the fuck go of me, dickweed!”

 

Pete’s chest is heaving and there’s something strangely compelling about watching it expand and contract under his ripped tank. But his eyes are raging fury as a large hand shoves into the centre of Patrick’s chest, as the wind is knocked out of him somewhere between Pete’s hot, damp palm and the rough cold of the wall. He’s a snarl and a sneer as he brings his face very close to Patrick’s, and yeah, he’s not thinking about how he could brush his lips to Pete’s, not at all. Actually, mostly he’s thinking he can’t fucking breathe as he scrabbles against Pete’s wrist with a weak objection of _get the fuck off of me._

 

“You think it’s funny?” Pete snarls and there’s spit on his lips and fire in his eyes as his breath skates over Patrick’s cheek like whispered threats.

 

Patrick’s up on his toes, trying to press away but there’s nothing but breezeblocks at his back and a solid wall of angry Pete in front of him so he heaves a breath and holds his hands up, presses them to Pete’s chest, wheezing a sentence around the empty hollow where his lungs once were, “I don’t know… what the fuck… you’re talking about… asshole.”

 

“Don’t play fucking cute with me,” the hand in the centre of his chest relaxes just a little, just enough for Patrick to drag in a breath that smells of the sour panic that radiates from him. “Did you think it was _funny_ to act like you didn’t know me at your place?”

 

Oh, fuck _that._ Just who the fuck does he think he is? So - and Patrick’s just clarifying here - forgetting who _he_ is? No problem _at all,_ how could Pete Wentz possibly be expected to remember every teenager that’s sucked his dick. Patrick forgetting _him?_ Incomprehensible, clearly the plot of some kind of elaborate joke designed to make Pete look stupid. So elaborate, in fact, that Patrick’s struggling to think of a potential punchline.

 

“Go to hell,” he snarls through gritted teeth, shoving Pete’s hand away whilst daydreams of fists and blood haze his vision like snow globe confetti. One show, he can make it through one show, just so he doesn’t let Joe down. Then Pete fucking Wentz can shove his band right up his vain, self absorbed ass. “Just… Fuck you.”

 

He wishes sometimes that his mouth could follow the flowing eloquence of his brain, that the words could fall from his lips as sharp and cutting in the moment as they seem to be hours later in the dark of his bedroom, kept awake by burning fury of never having the perfect comeback until it’s way too fucking late. So Patrick continues to snarl and Pete continues to sneer until he breaks the stalemate with a hand brushed in a patronising parody of a caress against Patrick’s cheek, “Okay then, _Baby P,_ shall we get this over with?”

 

Listen - Patrick doesn’t _want_ to follow behind Pete like a chastised child. He doesn’t. What he _wants_ to do is drag his drumkit from the stage and tell Pete to go fuck himself, he can smack on his asscheeks if he wants percussion that bad. But, of course he doesn’t, he bites hard on his lip and keeps his head down and reminds himself that it’s _music._ It’s that electrified thrum that shook him to stardust in the club, the pound and the clang and the wail of it that turned his blood to fire and put thunder in his pulse. It’s all he knows he wants and if he has to smile sweet for Pete _fucking_ Wentz until something better comes along then goddammit he’s a professional and that’s what he’ll do.

 

“Everything… okay?” Joe asks nervously, fiddling with his guitar as his eyes bounce between Pete and Patrick, back and forth as Pete smiles wide and Patrick scowls deep and both mutter something vaguely affirmative. “Right, we’re on and they’re getting ugly out there so…”

 

There’s no time for introductions to the other guys as guitars are shouldered, as Pete grabs the mic but - disconcertingly - no bass and Patrick is stumbling over pinched toes in too-tight Doc Martens that rub and chafe, drumsticks in hand as he half trips to his stool. Everything is perfect, he reaches out to touch each cymbal lightly with the back of his knuckles, all laid out, gleaming perfection under weak stage lighting in some shitty basement somewhere on the De Paul campus. 

 

He _still_ doesn’t know what they’re called but there’s a chilly sort of feeling in his gut as he glances at the two that have joined them on stage - Chris and Adam, they’re _Arma_ members - something about it is starting to make a horrible sort of sense. No. No, someone would have _told_ him…

 

“Fuck you, assholes,” Pete roars into his microphone and Patrick wishes he didn’t look so fucking good with a wristful of studs and leather, tanned and inked arms exposed to the shoulders in his grungy muscle tank. “We’re Arma Angelus and I wanna see you fucking _bleed_ out there, motherfuckers…”

 

What?

 

They’re _who?_

 

For a second, Patrick almost misses his cue, knuckles glowing like moonlight through skin as pale as porcelain. Neither Pete nor Joe will look at him, Joe focussing furiously on the back of the room and Pete making eyes at the crowd. He clicks his sticks on instinct, barely paying attention as they launch into the first track scrawled on the set list that he’s taped by his kit. They lied to him, they got him here on, like… false pretences. He could _sue_ them, he’s pretty sure that’s a thing. 

 

But there’s a show to play and he won’t fuck up on Pete’s account, fuck that noise, he won’t be made to look any more ridiculously stupid than Pete has made him look already. Did they laugh about it, the other four? Did they joke about how ridiculously gullible he is to have practised an Arma Angelus set without picking up on a thing? Did _Joe_ laugh? The guy that’s spent the past week stealing every bag of Pizzarias and every can of Tab from Patrick’s kitchen, the one that’s lounged on his bed and watched Star Trek with him after every practice, calling out the stupid plot lines and laughing at the ridiculous aliens.

 

Pete gave him an Arma Angelus tape. He didn’t even try to hide what he was doing, he was blatant and Patrick was too fucking _stupid_ to realise, to put two and two together and come up with _it’s a fucking Arma show, dumbass._ But - and Patrick really feels he can’t stress this enough - do not for a second suppose that he’s okay with it. He absolutely is not as he pours the fury into the drums, playing until his sticks splinter and tear into the tender flesh of his palms, until the skin of his feet is chafed raw by the unyielding leather of his boots. He plays until he feels as though it’s blood rather than sweat rolling down his brow and back.

 

It’s still electric, he decides, watching the crowd ebb and swell in the pit, watching them hurl their fury and rage right back at the stage. There’s a crackle in the air that thrums with his pulse, his lungs sharp and tuned to the rhythm of the bass, the passion of Pete’s screams tingling on pulsing power that pounds through him until his vision blurs with sweat and fervour. For right now, for this electric hum moment of sharp, hot pain and loud, rough anti melody it doesn’t fucking _matter,_ not Pete, not the band, not the betrayal, not the blisters or the bleeding. Every atom of Patrick’s being is reduced to nothing more than a tingling extension of each clashing pound of his kit, each ringing note dragged from bass or guitar and each roaring shout torn from lungs he - in this moment at least - adores for how they make him feel. Even if he hates their owner’s guts.

 

It lasts an eternity, the set in the sweaty basement, and yet is simultaneously over far too quickly, ripped to a close in a clash of drums and melody and screamed lyrics that hail a fuck you to everything that makes the crowd hurt. It’s over and he’s tingling, glowing with sweat and shivering with something he can’t articulate though he knows it isn’t cold. The crowd bay for more, scream for blood and passion, but it’s done, there’s nothing left to give and Patrick rises unsteadily to his feet, dragging the hem of his shirt up to mop at his face, to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes as he descends the stage on legs that tremble and shake with adrenaline and - now the set’s over - the howling depth of his fury.

 

“You fucking lied to me,” he’s on Pete the second he steps off the stage, hands caught in the front of his shirt, the rage enough to let him overpower Pete’s unquestionable greater strength as he - in something of a parody of their earlier conversation - slams Pete into the wall. 

 

“You didn’t ask,” Pete shrugs with the kind of maddening smirk that makes Patrick want to split his lip again, to crack those shining white teeth, to break and misshape the handsome sweep of his nose. “Take a chill pill, Baby P, you did great.”

 

There are firm hands on his shoulders - Chris, he thinks - pulling him back with a laugh that isn’t unkind, with words that don’t burn with cruelty, “Come on, dude, no need to freak out. He should’ve told you but… We’re done now, no more Arma.”

 

“No more…?” Patrick trails off, confused and still furious, still burning up with bitterness that everyone was laughing at him, still laughing, pointing, taunting, just like always. 

 

“I’m getting a real fucking job,” Chris continues in a low chuckle. “Adam and I have listened to this asshole for way too long,” he jerks his head in Pete’s direction, gets a friendly _fuck you_ in response, “I start college in the fall and I’m fucking done with all of this. Our drummer already quit and we still had a show… He should’ve told you, but… One show? Does it matter? You were fucking _righteous_ out there, man.”

 

Does it matter?

 

Does it fucking _matter?_

 

Pete’s still grinning that cheshire cat grin as he takes his bass back from Chris and embarrassment is still sharp and bitter at the back of Patrick’s throat as he casts a glance at Joe, examining his guitar like the fretboard is just about the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. It does matter. It absolutely matters because - this is important - Patrick isn’t an idiot and he won’t be treated like some dumb kid, some pathetic little high schooler that can be lied to and manipulated for the gain of Pete goddamn Wentz. He isn’t Prince Punk, he’s not Supreme Anarchist and he has no fucking right to treat people like that.

 

“Joe?” Patrick spits, refusing to look at anyone else, at their stupid, smug grinning faces because there are too many of them for him to start throwing punches. “Help me get my shit in the van and take me home.”

 

“Come on, man,” Joe fiddles uncomfortably with the stock of his guitar, eyes a silent plea. “Don’t have a cow.”

 

“Kiss my lily white ass,” Patrick snarls, already heading for his kit. If Joe won’t help him, he’ll do it himself. If he won’t give him a ride home, his mom’s Mercedes is more than big enough to come get him and his stuff. “You,” he jabs a finger hard into the centre of Pete’s chest, boiling over with rage when the smug grin doesn’t falter, “stay the the _fuck_ away from me. Go find some other dweeb to drum for you.”

 

“Nice move, McFly,” Joe snaps at Pete, shoulder checking him into the wall with gratifying solidarity as he hurries to catch Patrick up. Joe’s alright, Patrick decides. Joe’s pretty gnarly. Joe’s the only one he’ll miss.

 

The fury doesn’t lessen as his night wears on. It boils in his chest as they drive back to his place in silence, sparking his blood with rage he wants to pour into his fists. It’s there as they unload the kit into the garage, as Joe tries to make conversation and Patrick just grunts, barely trusting himself to speak to say goodnight, much less to respond to Joe’s hopeful request to hang out next week. It’s there as he nods politely when his mom, waiting up in her dressing gown and face mask, asks if he had a nice time, as he makes his excuses to get to bed and sprawl face down on his comforter with a gusting sigh.

 

It’s not fair. It’s just… so fucking _heinous._ Pete made a fool of him, made him look like a stupid, idiotic kid in front of a packed room full of people and… It’s not _fair._

 

His mom moves to her room, he can hear her in the bathroom that shares a wall with his room, can hear the lights click out as she settles to bed, safe in the knowledge her precious baby boy is safe and sound. He should probably get undressed, kick off the sweat-stained shirt and boots that are tearing his feet to shreds and shrug on his stupid, childish Ghostbusters pajamas. But instead he lies on his bed and broods on the various ways he can bring about the immediate demise of that ridiculous, tattooed asshole.

 

_Tap._

 

He jumps, startled at the rattle against his windowpane, jerking upright on his bed and staring with wide eyes. He’s seen Salem’s Lot, he knows how this shit goes down - not that he’s chicken shit, you understand, just understandably wary of strange noises after midnight - tugging his comforter up towards his face.

 

Patrick waits, still and silent, heart pounding against his ribs, though he isn’t entirely sure what he’s waiting _for_. He’ll know when it happens, he’s sure of that, but right now there’s nothing but silence ringing in the room, in the house, on the street outside. He’s halfway convinced that he’s imagined it, just his mind playing tricks on him, some kind of hallucination brought on by the sheer fucking irritation of knowing Pete is somewhere in the area, still breathing. 

 

He’s halfway to rolling off the bed, to getting undressed when it comes again, another sharp tap against the glass but this time it’s harmonised by a low whisper shout from just below the window, “Baby P? You in there?”

 

Oh no. Oh, fuck _that._ This isn’t fair Verona where we lay our scene, it’s fucking Glenview, it’s the middle of the night, his mom is asleep next door and Pete can shove his Romeo impression right up his ass. Patrick is across the room in two strides, window shoved up and leaning out with a hiss, “Fuck off, Pete.”

 

“Can’t.” He’s standing on the lawn, grin glowing in the moonlight, arms still bare and hands overflowing with pebbles plucked from the flowerbeds around the house. Okay, Patrick _knows,_ his stomach shouldn’t flip flop the way it does at the sight of him, at the way the muscles in his shoulders tense and flow as he casually flings another pebble at the window. Patrick ducks as it rattles the glass directly above his head, bobbing back up with a scowl, “Fuck you, asshole, that was nearly my goddamn face.”

 

“It missed you by a mile, dude,” Pete tosses another, this time it thunks against the brickwork just to Patrick’s left. Patrick wonders absently which will run out first - his patience or Pete’s - no, his _mom’s_ \- goddamn pebbles. “Come down. Come on, man, I want to talk to you.”

 

“I’d rather swing my dick in the middle of Wrigley Field,” Patrick snaps, irritated.

 

“That has potential, I’ll bear that in mind,” Pete hurls another stone against the window, this time a little harder, a little louder. “Get your ass down here, or I’ll sing, and the last thing I heard on the radio was Hey Mickey…”

 

Patrick thinks about it for a moment, he swears he does, staring down at Pete shining bright against the lawn that the moon has washed to monochrome. He thinks about it and, with a very determined little huff, he yanks the window back down, swishes his curtains closed and clicks off his light as he flops back onto his bed. His campaign of resistance is the right decision, he thinks, absolutely the correct course of action to take when faced with the alternative of slipping out of the house and… 

 

_“Oh Patty you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Patty, hey Patty.”_

 

Jesus Christ. Patrick yanks his pillow over his head, silently hoping that one of their neighbours will call the cops and someone in a uniform will come along and haul that asshole off to a holding cell for the night. He’s not getting up. He isn’t.

 

_“Oh Patty what a pity, you don’t understand, you take me by the heart when you take me by the hand, oh Patty you’re so pretty, can’t you understand, it’s guys like you Patty, oh what you do Patty, do Patty, don’t break my heart Patty.”_

 

Pete manages to be both flat and sharp at the same time, the uncomfortable screech of it jarring through Patrick like warring cats. Resolve not to let that bastard win battling with not upsetting his mom he shoves his pillow to the floor, drags open the curtains and shoves up the window once more, voice a low roar, a whisper of a scream, “Would you shut _the fuck_ up? My mom has work in the morning, jackass!”

 

Pete stares at him for a long second, that grin spreading slowly across his face like sunrise, Patrick scowls down at him, fingers wrapped around some stupid softball trophy from his desk that he’s pretty certain he could hit Pete with successfully from this distance. Pete stares and Pete grins and, after the moment of quiet, Pete carries right on singing.

 

_“So come on and give it to me any way you can, any way you wanna do it I’ll take it like a man, oh please baby please, don’t leave me in a jam Patty.”_

 

“You’re not even singing it in order,” Patrick snarls, slamming down the trophy and gathering up his leather jacket from his desk. “Just… shut the fuck up and give me a minute.”

 

He negotiates the stairs like a goddamn ninja, well versed in each creaking board, eyes trained on his mom’s bedroom door as he creeps down the treads. Not the front door, it’s right below her window, through the kitchen and out of the side door, down the steps and around the side of the house to join Pete on the street washed to shades of grey by starlight, and a grin glowing bright as a full moon. 

 

“What do you want?” He doesn’t add _dickweed._ He’s showing signs of maturity. It must be the facial hair.

 

“Come for a drive with me,” it’s a statement not a question and Pete is already striding away towards a beat up station wagon sagging against the curb like it needs it to stay upright on its wheels. Patrick raises an eyebrow, he’d sort of imagined Pete driving something cool, a Mustang or a Charger not the rusted mom mobile he’s slipping into.

 

“You drive an Edsel?” Patrick can’t keep the sneer from his voice as he slips into the passenger seat, Pete sliding about twelve rungs down the cool ladder back towards him. “An Edsel _station wagon?”_

 

“Be kind to Betsy,” Pete admonishes him with a lopsided smile that flip-flops Patrick’s insides and clenches something tight in his groin. “She’s a good girl, she’ll take care of us.”

 

Pete doesn’t speak again as they drive across the suburbs and Patrick won’t give him the satisfaction of asking where they’re going or what the hell he wants to talk about anyway. Instead, he watches the way the streetlights play patterns of orange and gold over Pete’s face, the way the planes and angles of his face cast interesting shadows as he keeps his eyes straight ahead, lips tucked up in the smallest of smirks. He’s still an asshole - don’t _tell_ him, okay, Patrick still can’t stand him - but fuck if he isn’t a good looking son of a bitch and dammit if Patrick can’t stop thinking about dark quiet vans and thick hard cocks.

 

They pull up eventually at a quiet spot by the lake, just on the other side of Wilmette. There’s nothing but woodland and silence and Patrick knows exactly where they are, shoots Pete a confused glance.

 

“Why did you bring me _here?”_ He asks, accusation bright as the streetlights they’ve left behind. 

 

“What’s so special about here?” Pete counters with innocence lightly laced through mocking words spilled from teasing lips turned up in a taunting grin. 

 

“This is where everyone comes to suck face,” Patrick rolls his eyes as he drums his fingertips lightly against the door card. The car smells of chemical air freshener, cigarettes, White Castle and Pete, the latter something spicy and earthy that makes his heart thump. “Amongst other things.”

 

“My goodness,” Pete clasps a hand to his chest in mock shock, camped up and ridiculous, amber eyes wide and flooded with a silly imitation of scandal. “Is _that_ what the kids do these days? Well, I’ll try to carry on but I can assure you, Patrick Stumph, that I am both shocked _and_ appalled. Will you protect my virtue, Baby P?”

 

Patrick just hums out his irritation into the collar of his jacket, bites his annoyance into his lower lip and stares off out of the window. He won’t break this by demanding to know what they’re doing. He’s better than that. But he thinks he can be forgiven for the squeak that scrapes, strangled and sharp, from the back of his throat as Pete reaches over and lightly strokes his thigh. He thinks it’s okay - understandable in fact - that his breathing quickens just a little when Pete’s hand slides to cup his cheek and turn his head, when the ghost of breath that’s scented with Big Red and memories of touches in the gloom skitters over Patrick’s lips like an unspoken promise.

 

“But,” Pete pauses to murmur in the beat before their lips touch. “I guess if _everyone’s_ doing it, I can cave to peer pressure just this once…”

 

Patrick doesn’t want to kiss him back, okay? He wants to shove that asshole away from him and demand to be driven back home. No, he’s lying, he wants nothing more than the soft mouth teasing his with sweet, nudging little kisses, he wants the fistful of coarse, dark hair caught between his fingers, he wants the velvet brush of Pete’s tongue against the eager softness of his own. The hands at his shoulders shove leather and studs down his arms, slide to his hips and drag and urge him over the parking brake and onto the sinuous length of Pete’s slim thighs.

 

His hands find Pete’s neck as he shifts on his knees, straddling Pete’s lap and he can’t quite remember why he shouldn’t, why Pete’s such a jerk, why anything matters beyond a warm, eager mouth under his tongue. So, when Pete breathes the softest of questions against the skin of his throat, the murmur of a lust soaked syllable as thick and wet as the air between them, the quietest breath of _good?_ , well, it’s all Patrick can do to gather himself enough to nod and groan back a weak _fuck yeah._

 

“Take off your shirt,” Pete urges, robbed breathless by Patrick’s mouth and tongue, shotgunning air between them. Patrick’s dumb for him, stupid for this moment as he complies, shirt swept off and dumped somewhere on the floor. Any hang ups are forgotten, eyes closed and back arched as a hot, wet mouth finds the tight bud of a nipple, as its grazed by eager teeth that spark pleasure like nothing Patrick’s ever felt before, crackling static all over his skin. 

 

Pete’s cock is hard, Patrick can feel it through their pants as he grinds down onto him, as he braces back against the steering wheel, all hard plastic and sharp protrusions that carve into the tender skin of his back. Pete’s hands at his hips are tight and blazing heat straight through Patrick’s pants as he rocks him back and forth, fucks him through fabric until Patrick is dizzy with it. Lips meet tongues meet teeth, it’s spit and fire, aching with need as Patrick writhes on Pete’s lap, desperate for more, for everything, burning up with desire in the steamed up station wagon.

 

Pete’s hand hits his zipper as his lips find a spot on Patrick’s throat that makes him see stars. He’s trashing Pete’s mohawk, raking his hands through it as he pins him close, as he whispers curses that don’t make sense and bucks up into the warm hand easing its way into his shorts. He cries out, just a ragged shout Pete’s name, as his head rolls back and the lips don’t stop and the calloused fingers find their way around him, as a rough thumb scrapes the tender tip of Patrick’s lust-slick dick. It’s too-much-not-enough as he fucks into the heat of Pete’s fist, something screaming from his subconscious that he wants it all, wants the world to explode under Pete’s command so he whispers, voice a lust-fucked husk that scrapes his throat raw, “Suck it.”

 

“Excuse me?” Yeah, Patrick echoes that sentiment, what the fuck is he thinking? Pete’s eyebrows are arched in amusement, lips drawn into a thin smile as he stops touching and oh no, why has he stopped touching…

 

“I can jerk off at home,” a voice that sounds remarkably similar to his own, just darker with burning desire, declares, “Now suck my fucking cock.”

 

“Oh, boy,” Pete smirks all bright arrogance and knowing intent as he runs his hand agonisingly slowly from base to tip. “A _dominant_ side. Well, Baby P, aren’t you just full of surprises. Get in the back and lay down.”

 

Patrick slithers and slides his way from Pete’s lap, between the seats and onto the backseat, stumbling eager, slipping and falling and flopping back against the leather with a grunt. His dick _aches,_ each graze of cotton against the leaking head a spike of want-need-more, a throb in his groin like nothing he’s ever experienced before in the quiet of under the covers or the solitude of the shower. He’s fever sweats, shivering and burning, slicked up with sweat as Pete follows him, lithe and graceful and somehow shirtless too, as he straddles his lap with a smirk that says he knows something and eyes that burn with lust. 

 

There’s a finger, rough and calloused, against the seam of Patrick’s lips and he sucks it in, swirls and licks in a filthy parody of what he wants between his legs, tastes the sharp flavour of salt and strings. Another hand works down his pants and boxers to his knees, his whole body on display and whilst part of him wants to curl in on himself and hide each inch, most of him just aches for more, more touch, more skin, more sweat. _More._

 

Lips are burning bright against his, a meandering trail picked out in heated lips-teeth-tongue against his throat, his collarbone, across ribs and skin, licking a trail from his navel. There’s a mark, bruise dark, bitten sharp into the flesh of his hip, another sucked to the cream of his thigh. Tattoos of Pete’s mouth branded burning into his skin, marks of ownership, territory scored out. His dick twitches with each one, nails biting bright into bruised and torn palms that sting with sweat, his eyes flooded with silent demands as Pete pins him with a teasing smile, as a tanned hand circles his prick and the sweet suggestion of heated breath ghosts feather soft over the head of his cock, “Hey, you managed not to come in your pants this time, bodacious, dude.”

 

_Did he use a condom? Sucking dick without one is risky behaviour._

 

Oh, goddammit, William, not right now. Patrick pauses, breathless and doubting, hand tight in Pete’s hair as he mumbles in a voice that hums with embarrassment, “Uh… Do we need… Condom?”

 

“Don’t worry, princess,” Pete’s voice sparkles with that ugly laugh of his. “You can’t get pregnant this way.”

 

“Fuck you,” Patrick squeaks as a hot, wet tongue slicks a hot, wet flick over the head of his dick. “I just thought…”

 

“Well,” Pete’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. _“I’m_ clean… Aren’t _you_ clean, Baby P?”

 

“I mean, I _guess,”_ it’s making less and less sense to insist as Pete nuzzles open mouthed kisses along his shaft, and Patrick can’t think, can’t form thoughts, can just whine low and soft.

 

“Relax,” Pete advises in the split second before his mouth slides, hot wet slick, down the full length of Patrick’s cock. 

 

Patrick doesn’t have the neurons firing in the messy thrum of his brain to acknowledge that actually, deep throat definitely _is_ a thing that someone can do as Pete takes him in with grasping greed. No, he can just gape at the roof of the car, knees jerked up and hands tight and gripping into a messy black mohawk as he fucks up into an eager mouth with a quick, clever tongue. Patrick has no frame of reference, nothing on which to draw a comparison but he’s already decided that Pete is basically a fucking _god_ of sucking dick.

 

There are curls and knots of swirling heat that ebb and flow through Patrick’s groin, up into his belly to spark fire in his lungs, his whole body ablaze with tingling need that reduces him to nothing more than wordless, nasal little whines. Pete’s eyes glow in the darkness, amusement shining there as he slides a couple of fingers into Patrick’s mouth. He’s too far gone to really work out what to do, just licks and sucks in a sloppy parody of Pete’s polish and finesse with his dick, legs spread as wide as the prison of his pants will allow at the urging of a warm hand on his thigh. He tips back his head in surrender as the fingers withdraw from his lips, the slick of spit cool and damp against his chin as that familiar pressure, that warm glow, ignites low in his groin. Just a few more seconds, that’s all he needs, he swears and...

 

Pete pulls off. Patrick snarls out a curse, hand trembling in the dark for purchase, for hair or skin or something he can use to drag Pete back to his cock but Pete just chuckles, dark as smoke, as he delicately circles the rim of Patrick’s hole with fingers spit slick and dangerous. 

 

“You ever done this, Baby P?” His voice burns like heated touches, decadent and dark. “You ever fingered yourself?”

 

“Please,” Patrick wants something more eloquent but that’s all he’s got, a desperate plea from a needy kid flushed pink with desire and sweat. “Pete… please.”

 

Pete’s laugh envelops him, wraps him in dark wants until he’s suffocating with it as those fingers brush and tease, maddeningly feather light against sensitive places that crave more. His dick juts up between them, lust dark and shining dim in the low light with spit, crowned with the pearlshine glow of precome. It throbs with his quickening pulse as Pete, a gentle tease, slides a finger inside of him, the breach of flesh and bone enough to elicit a gasping groan, a buck of pale hips and the hard clench of tight muscle. 

 

But Pete doesn’t stop there - or start sucking his cock again for that matter - gently crooking and probing that finger until he touches something that makes Patrick’s eyes cross a little, that shows him swirling galaxies of once-hidden stars against the stained headliner of the car. It makes him gasp a gritted curse, tightens his hands in two fistfuls of his own honey blonde hair. It makes Pete laugh softly, has him pulling a quick suck against the head of Patrick’s prick as he taps that spot sharply and Patrick can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t can’t can’t…

 

The mouth is gone again, another finger pressed inside and this one sort of burns, just a little, just enough to make him tense. But there’s a hot mouth wrapped around the tender skin of one testicle, sucking soft, soothing slow. Patrick is lost, a whining mess against the seat as Pete sucks in time with the fuck of his fingers, curling slow and sweet against that spot, that wonderful little point of coiling heat that sparks him like diamonds. And Pete is grinning around spit curled hair and delicate flesh, smirking like he’s won though Patrick doesn’t know the prize but as he raises his head, lips shining red, he whispers it soft and knowing, “You’ll be in my band?”

 

“What the _fuck_ are you… Just… Suck my fucking cock… _Please!”_ Patrick’s wide eyed impatience above Pete, squirming hips and gasping lips and muttered stupidity, because although his ass thinks he might be able to get off like this, his dick has other ideas, blood flushed and ignored.

 

“Come on, Baby P,” he smirks, wide, bright and mischievous, fucking Patrick like a song with clever hands as pretty lips breathe heat all over his dick. “For me?”

 

“You don’t _have_ a band,” Patrick points out, silently congratulating himself on a correctly formed sentence made of real words. 

 

“And you can’t suck your own dick,” Pete shrugs, fingertips feathering that perfect little thrum inside of him until he’s whining, panting, begging silently. He should say no - he knows that, he’s not an idiot - he should shove away and go… Jerk off in the bushes or something. But instead that big, dumb dick of his takes control, sliding smoothly behind the controls as his mouth opens and half breathed declarations spill forth like stolen kisses.

 

“Yeah, okay, whatever you want,” he whines and pleads and reaches for that messy mohawk, fingers sinking into dark strands like burning gratitude. “In your band, fine, now please… _Please!”_

 

He’s not embarrassed that he comes within seconds of the perfect wet slick of Pete’s mouth against his shaft, throbbing and thrusting his ogasm down that pretty, tanned throat. He’s not ashamed of the hot explosion of white noise in his ears, the blinding flashes of technicolour that race behind his eyelids as he fucks his hips up into Pete’s mouth, dragging him down by two handfuls of black hair wound around pale fingers. He’s too busy bursting apart from the inside as he comes, hot and thick and endless into the willing pull of Pete’s pretty lips. The same lips that find his as Pete crawls up him, lips heavy with a desperate kind of bitter salt heat, as an eager tongue licks into his mouth slick with his own come. 

 

“You know, Baby P,” Pete whispers, the smell of Patrick’s orgasm lacing his breath with the cinnamon as he unzips his pants and begins to thrust his thick, leaking dick against the crease of Patrick’s hip. “It’s polite to warn someone before you do that.”

 

“Shut up, dickweed,” Patrick gasps as the rough rub of Pete’s groin scrapes the sensitive skin of his cock. “And knock it off with the Baby P bullshit.”

 

“You're stuck with me now,” Pete breathes, a woozy promise drunk on lust against the shell of Patrick’s ear. “And we’re gonna take over the goddamn world.”

 

In that half hazed moment of lust and come and a hard cock rutting against him, Patrick almost believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I love this universe so much.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, we're three chapters in so far so let me know what you think! 
> 
> I can also be found on Tumblr [HERE](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) if you want to come and say hi.


	4. Don't Make This A Personal Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick makes some questionable decisions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back again! This week's chapter title is taken from Oxford Blues, yet another 1980s movie recommendation direct from your Encyclopaedia Of The 80s. Once again, I'd like to take a second to thank laudanum_cafe for proof reading for me and being just the very best. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this week's update!

It’s not that Patrick doesn’t like John and Ben, he just… Okay, he kind of doesn’t like Ben, sitting all smug and know it all behind Patrick’s goddamn drum kit, touching it with his stupid hands and smiling with his ridiculous face. 

 

Patrick is _not_ a front man. Patrick told Pete this even as he hauled him to the microphone, stripped bare of anything to hide behind. Patrick repeated it, in a voice he could hear growing steadily more whiney and petulant, during every practice, every phone conversation about practices and every moment spent sitting in his bedroom arguing with Pete about not being a goddamn front man.

 

Did Pete listen? Pete - unsurprisingly - did not. 

 

“Think of AC/DC, man,” he’d grinned encouragement, all toothy and irritating. “Think of The Eagles. Singers aren’t always the front man and besides, you’re the cutest asset we’ve got, I’m not hiding you behind the kit.”

 

The last part of that sentence was wholly unnecessary and only served to flood Patrick’s cheeks with ridiculous heat that he tried to hide by ducking his head behind the mic and scowling fiercely. Pete - because he’s a goddamn asshole - just laughed, pinched his cheek as though it was funny - it wasn’t, for the record - and called him Baby P, that stupid, ugly laugh burning brighter as Patrick aimed a sharp kick at his ankle.

 

He likes John and Ben even less as they leave the stage to cheers from the crowd at the DePaul cafeteria. Not cheers because they did good - oh no, not even close - but cheers because they’re finally taking the hint and leaving the stage and letting a real band take over. The haphazard collection of covers selected by Pete, sprawled on Patrick’s bed with his vinyl collection spread out like a testament to eclectic musical taste, was not well received. Patrick suspects the _punked up_ cover of Thriller might have been the step that ultimately pushed the crowd too far and he’d felt more than faintly ridiculous standing on the stage with nowhere to hide, faced with derisive sneers and the occasional well aimed beer bottle.

 

 _“That,”_ he declares as they load the van. “Was bogus. _We_ were bogus. I just… Why did I let you talk me into this?”

 

The drive back in Joe’s shitty van - so shitty it makes the Arma van look like Motley Crue’s tour bus - is silent, only made worse by the fact that the radio doesn’t work so the awkward quiet can’t even be drowned out with QWRK’s Honey Hadley’s Happy Hour. It lends John’s voice a fraction more gravitas as he shoulders his guitar case at the bottom of his drive and, with an awkward little twist of his hands, mutters down at his shoes, “Good luck guys, I’m out.”

 

The silence rings between the remaining four as Joe noses the van out of John’s street, continues all the way across the city until they reach the 7/11 three blocks from Ben’s house. Patrick pokes at the window seal that’s warped and sticky because the only way to give the van enough power to actually move is to keep the heat cranked up high. Even in July. Patrick chews his lip and, as the others stare out of the windows like the dream is over, he calls out a demand.

 

“So… Can I like, have a guitar now or what?”

 

*

 

“We need some original material,” Patrick declares at practice as the August heat softens the asphalt outside. His basement is a chilled hum of air conditioned relief and, as seems to have become tradition, they’re joined by a random collection of friends, friends of friends and random hangers on. “And a name. I’m sick of being Pete Wentz and His Bitches.”

 

“I think that’s got promise,” Pete grins like a fucking Crest ad, all bright teeth and shining eyes. “Like Bon Jovi but edgier.”

 

“Fuck you,” Patrick rolls his eyes. “We need something cool, something that like… References Bowie or something…”

 

“Ground Control To Major Dweeb?” Ben laughs from behind the kit. Still Patrick’s kit, Ben’s isn’t as good - _Ben_ isn’t as good - and he knows it makes no sense to drag it to his house for practice when there’s a perfectly good one _right there_ and yet… Patrick tenses sharp and scowls dark over his shoulder, thoughts controlled in a mouthful of Pepsi Free. Yeah, yeah, he knows he has to play nice, he’s _doing_ it isn’t he?

 

“Nah,” Pete shakes his head. “We need something political, that’s what this scene’s all about, right? Like… Ronald Reagan’s Russian Roulette.”

 

There’s an explosion of laughter from everyone sprawled across the couch, lounging on the floor, drinking cans of soda from the packs Patrick’s mom picked up from the store. Pete grins in the centre of it, glowing bright in the spotlight, absorbing attention like he needs it to keep moving. He lives for this, for holding court and commanding his stage, controlling his audience and moving them like pawns around him. Patrick knows it, he’s not dumb - he’s _not,_ okay? - but he’s growing used to it, teaching himself to be the mirror that reflects back Pete’s shine.

 

“Fallout Boy?” He mutters under his breath. It’s a question not a statement, his eyes drifting to the copy of Children Of The Dust poking out of his backpack. “Like...Nuclear fallout, you know? So we’re political but… No, like, space it out Fall Out Boy,” he flicks his fingers with each word, a languid wave of his arm ticking along like an underscore, “it’ll look better on the flyers. And Boy because… Well, it’s kind of like we’re being ironic, you know? Like, all these boy bands like Bros or Duran Duran but… Cooler. I dunno, it’s fucking dumb, ignore me.”

 

“That’s pretty rad, guy,” Chris stretches on the couch in jeans more rip than denim. Patrick still doesn’t grasp the effortless cool Pete and his friends pull off in trashed jeans and faded shirts, even the rips look casually designed to emphasise a collarbone or a bicep. Patrick tries - yeah, the effort of it embarrasses him, too - spending hours scraping his brand new Levis against the patio to scuff up the knees. He trashes his sparkling Converse until they’re dirty and scuffed and his mom is a mess of despair about what the folk at the Country Club might think. He knows, okay, don’t tell him, he knows he looks like a poser but, when Pete had grabbed his ass in the bathroom the first time he wore them, dragging him into a kiss that tasted of Marlboros and Mentos, he’d almost felt like it was worth it.

 

The conversation is lost amongst laughter at something Joe says and Patrick misses because he’s too busy staring at Pete. He’s getting good at doing it subtly, a glance from under his lashes, a flicker of a glimpse from the corner of his eye, he can watch Pete intently and for all anyone knows, he’s just tuning his guitar. He knows each line of his body now, each sweep of his face, could trace his tattoos in an abyss of complete darkness, wants to so much it aches. 

 

Nothing has happened since that night in the Edsel beyond the occasional head-spinning kiss. Always behind a locked door, always hidden, always a hushed secret tucked like a note into his pocket, the stroke of his cheek that says _this is just ours,_ the lingering smile that says, _don’t tell._ And Patrick doesn’t, he tells himself it doesn’t matter. He tells himself it doesn’t hurt when Pete slips into a bathroom stall with yet another pretty girl with brightly coloured hair and smudge dark kohl ringing eyes that shine at him like stars granting wishes. He looks away and he finds Joe and he loads the van and when Pete returns - fuck flushed and smiling - he’ll throw a punch when lips slick against his neck greasy with lipstick. He’ll hurl an elbow into ribs like rails when a cheek streaked with powder pale foundation scrapes against his own. He’ll toss insults like it doesn’t matter even when - god fucking dammit - he knows it does.

 

It’s just a dumb crush.

 

But when practice wraps after a few more songs, a lot more fucking around and a dozen more cans of soda, Patrick glows with a secret sort of specialness when Pete tells everyone else to go on ahead to McDonald's or Denny’s or wherever the fuck it is they’re going, when he tells them he wants to work on some lyrics with Baby P.

 

Look, Patrick _knows,_ okay. He knows it’s just a stupid nickname tossed out by a stupider douchebag. But it’s _his_ name, handed out by _his_ douchebag, the only one that gets to shower him in a parody of affection. The one that gets to lean on his shoulder and drool as he dozes after a show. The one that presses his head into Patrick’s lap and pretends he doesn’t notice the telltale nudge of a hard cock against denim. He gets it, he’s the friend without benefits, the stage gay, the fun above the waist, he’s a stolen kiss and broken promise and he’ll never be anything more than that. 

 

He _gets_ it.

 

The room clears gradually, person by person retreating out into the midsummer burn of blazing sun, only two left in the cool hum of chilled silence. Pete flicks absently through a stack of records next to Patrick’s turntable, sifting and sorting, humming his approval at this one, snorting derision at another. Patrick wonders if he’s done pretending he doesn’t notice the way Pete’s hands tremble, that he doesn’t see that sometimes it’s so bad he can barely pluck out the line on his bass. He wonders if he’s brave enough to hear what he suspects, that it’s lines of white powder or needles sliding into honey gold skin that makes him tremor and shake. There has to be a gentle way to approach this, some kind of adult phrase that’s going to make everything okay, he thinks and he tries and he opens his mouth and a single sentence falls, clipped sharp.

 

“What’s with the shaking?” He asks. Pete tenses hard, knuckles a white glow under toffee skin, eyes narrowing at the Johnny Cash album clutched in hands he’s clearly trying to steady.

 

“I didn’t know you like Cash…” He holds the album up like Patrick’s an idiot, like he can be distracted by colours and pictures like a goddamn toddler. 

 

“I like lots of things,” Patrick shrugs, tossing Pete one of the beers he’d stashed earlier behind the couch cushions. “Why are your hands always shaking?”

 

Pete cracks open the Pabst and takes a mouthful, grimacing at the warmth. Patrick won’t be deterred as he leans up against the wall and takes a sip from his own can - fuck, it still tastes awful, why does anyone drink this for _fun?_ \- and stares Pete down with a gaze that he hopes says don’t fuck with me. Across the room Pete sighs like it hurts and drops down to the couch, feet kicked up and so much tanned skin displayed by a ridden up shirt. Patrick likes the tattoo there, the one right between his hipbones, the one that draws the eye lower, the one he wants to taste. 

 

“Lithium,” Pete shrugs it out like it’s an answer and Patrick stares like it’s not. He cocks his head and swallows down another mouthful of lukewarm Pabst and waits silently for Pete to expand on his statement. It takes a beat or two longer than it should, uncomfortable silence crackling on static between them and Patrick almost wants to call the question back, to tell him it doesn’t matter and it’s none of his business because this feels personal on a level that he’s just not comfortable with. But before he can do it, before apologies can spill from his lips, Pete continues. “I’m manic depressive, dude. They give me Lithium, that’s why my hands shake.”

 

“What’s-” Patrick barely has the word out of his mouth, dumb words formed thick on the tongue of a confused teen who doesn’t get it.

 

“What’s Manic Depression? Oh, boy,” Pete grins like it’s funny but sighs like it’s not, fingers laced around his can and pressed tight to his thighs like the shakes aren’t real if he can just control them, just hold himself taut and still. “Sometimes I’m up here,” he makes an expansive gesture that covers everything from the ceiling to the cloudless Chicago sky hidden somewhere above them, “and sometimes I crash out. If the manic part sounds like it should be fun, trust me, it’s not and the depressive bit? Yeah. Not my favourite. So they medicate me with something that makes me feel like shit, that makes me feel like I’m gonna vibrate straight out of my goddamn skin, but…”

 

He lets that hang, lets Patrick fill in for himself that it’s better than the alternative. Patrick’s got no experience of things like depression, he doesn’t know what to say, wants to call back the words that might have made Pete feel uncomfortable. He shifts against the wall, eyes Pete carefully before releasing the words like they matter, “Whatever, man. I still think you’re pretty righteous.”

 

Pete just smiles that vacant grin he’s so good at, eyes drifting somewhere through Patrick, burning bright against his skin as he beckons like a charmed promise and Patrick’s heart is beating faster, a sharp burst against suddenly spasming lungs. Yes, he knows - _he knows,_ stop telling him, okay? - that it’s a bad idea to cross the room but he does it. He knows he shouldn’t obey when Pete’s voice thrums on stuttering sound waves between them to strike an insistent bassline between his legs, “Take off your pants, Baby P. And your shirt.”

 

But he does - God help him, he does - shuffling the tight denim down over hips, ass and thighs, kicking them to the side, shucking off his Madness shirt and standing in front of a softly smiling Pete with a hard cock and hands that don’t know what to do. He follows the grip on his hips that urges him to his knees between Pete’s spread legs, lets an interested tongue lick into his mouth as he fumbles with Pete’s zipper, dragging his dick free and pulling away, ducking to taste.

 

“No,” there are hands in his hair that urge him back, amber eyes that burn into his as smiling lips form teasing words. “Not today. Lay back and put your legs up on mine.”

 

Patrick obeys because, like, come on, what the hell else is he going to do? He lies back against the cool linoleum and presses his calves up onto Pete’s thighs, all spread out and exposed. There’s a burning glow to his skin that kicks off heat like a furnace in his cheeks, across his chest and down to the delicate flush of his cock. Pete’s watching, dick in his hand and lust on his lips as he hisses instructions like they sting his tongue.

 

“Go ahead,” Pete’s warm with invitation. “Let me see you, let me watch you fuck yourself wide open for me. God, Baby P, you’ve got no idea what you do to me…”

 

Patrick - for what it’s worth - really has no idea at all what this could possibly be doing for Pete, a chubby kid all out on show for him, hard cock leaking like he’s needed to come for an hour. He’s burning bright with embarrassment at what Pete wants him to do, but the heat-shock burn of arousal provides an adequate distraction as he sucks a couple of fingers into his mouth. He’s not trying to show off as he slides them down to the exposed pucker of his ass, he’s not teasing to please as he presses them in just half an inch although Pete moans like he’s doing it by design. He rolls his wrist, working in a fraction more on each thrust, free hand framing his prick and stroking slow - not because he knows it’ll turn Pete on, oh no, but because he knows he’ll blow his wad in seconds if he goes any faster.

 

There’s a sting and a burn between his legs as his knuckles fit flush to the curve of his ass, as Pete breathes a _fuck yes, just like that,_ and Patrick hisses out a breath that’s hot and stale from confinement in the sudden grasping greed of his lungs. This is familiar, fingers buried deep as he thrusts into his fist and thinks of Pete, this is something that’s happened night after night, burning with jealousy when another Not Patrick was chosen, another pretty girl with pretty lips. Pretending like the fingers aren’t his own, that it’s Pete between his legs all pretty lips and glowing eyes and whispered promises of filth and fantasy.

 

“You don’t even know, do you?” He’s murmuring sweetness from sugared lips, stroking his cock as he watches Patrick through eyes lidded with lust. “You don’t see the way they look at you, the way they want you. They want to fuck you but you’re mine, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick groans though he doesn’t really get it, doesn’t understand. Thoughts are losing their structure, drifting dreamlike somewhere between the fingertips that scuff against the burning thrum of his prostate and the way his cock twitches sharp against his palm. “I want to kiss you.”

 

“I want to watch you,” Pete counters, hand hard and fast against his dick. Patrick groans out a curse, a desperate hiss of _motherfucker_ as he tucks another finger alongside the two pressed deep inside, as he feels the glorious stretch and fullness. Pete moans his approval, cursed adoration flecking down from lips flushed and bitten, the sharp press of shining teeth sunk into pink, the flicker of a wet tongue a sinful tease. 

 

Patrick rubs and fucks harder and quicker, setting a rhythm with Pete. He wants to watch him come undone, wants his body striped with ribbons of white desire that slick his skin. He wants Patrick to fall from Pete’s lips like a prayer or a curse, it doesn’t really matter which, he’s learning - again, not fucking dumb - that with Pete they’re basically one and the same. There’s a knot pulling taut in his groin, the tension of a thread pulled tight, the pressure right before it snaps coiling low with bubbling heat. Bright pain blooms as his teeth snag his lip, as he blinks up at Pete and begs for permission he didn’t know he needed with wide eyes and a soft groan. 

 

“Slow down,” Pete commands, though he keeps the same rough, hard pace on his own dick, the slick of precome blooming at the head. Patrick whines but ultimately obeys, stroking a soft hand against the sensitive silk of his shaft as the heat of Pete’s skin sears into his through the rips and shreds of his jeans. “You ever been fucked, P?”

 

Patrick has neither fucked nor been fucked - don’t laugh okay, it’s pathetic, he gets that - a fact he’s lamented many times to Will in the safety of a bedroom festooned with Cubs pennants. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to, or at least, that’s what he’s always assumed, it’s that he’s never been presented with the damned opportunity. His heart speeds a little more as he stammers and blushes and Pete smirks like it’s funny. It’s not. So - and this is what it comes down to - he can be honest and admit he’s a seventeen year old virgin or he can lie through his ass - currently pressed full of his fingers as his hot friend stares down at him - and paint himself into a corner he’s never coming out of. 

 

“Yeah,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Lots of times.”

 

“Oh, really?” Pete’s grin is bright with unspoken promise and hushed desires. “Guys?”

 

“And girls,” Patrick lets the lie spiral because what does it matter, he’s come this far, right? 

 

“D’you want me to fuck you right now?” Pete moans on the last word, voice trailing up as his head rolls forward and his eyes blaze burning points into Patrick’s skin.

 

Does he? _Should_ he? Just welcome Pete down between spread legs, let him push inside and fuck him through the floor? His cock twitches at the thought, a delicious little clench of sharp muscle around the invasion of his fingers that pushes them up against that spot that explodes a milky way of scattered, faraway lights across his vision.

 

“No,” he breathes, twisting deeper with a groan. He’s not ready, not even _close_ to ready. “I want… I want…”

 

“What?” Pete breathes, the smile gone, hand a heady blur against the blood dark thickness of his cock. “What do you want?”

 

“Let… Let me suck your dick…” There are nails biting brilliant points of pain into his calf, sunken white hot crescents that mark his skin and brand him with fine red threads of blood that mar the porcelain pale. He holds a breath like a promise, waits for Pete to speak as he strokes at his cock, feels the satin pull of skin under his palm.

 

“No,” Pete shakes his head as a bright pearl of precome beads heavy and thick at the tip of his prick, as he slicks it with a fingertip and swipes it against his tongue. Patrick gasps out a curse, the huff of _fuck_ sharp on his lips as he stares at the pink sweep of Pete’s tongue and aches with the longing of things he’s being denied. 

 

Pete shifts, all silent grace, no awkward fumbling as he moves to straddle Patrick’s thighs, as he strokes his cock with a slow slide of his palm, nudges the tips of their dicks together and jolts sharp bolts of desire through Patrick’s groin. It’s awkward, maneuvering around so many limbs and hands and the hard heat of a cock he’s apparently not supposed to touch. But then Pete’s murmuring filth and promises of all the things to come, “I’m gonna fuck you, I might not be the first but fuck, I’ll be the last. You want that? Want me inside of you? Want to fuck yourself on my cock?”

 

Patrick whines - pathetically needy, he knows, _he knows_ \- as the world seems to recede and the sensation seems to rush up on him like vertigo, dizzy and spinning. The tight coil inside of him springs apart, heat tearing through him from the twitch of his cock to the tingle in his belly to the stuttering throb of his desperate heart as he keens a cry into nothing, as he tears apart down seams he didn’t know existed. And it’s everything and nothing - not the first time he’s fucked himself sore with greedy fingers whilst he gets himself off with a grasping fist - it’s familiar yet completely foreign, it’s burning from the inside and shivering shudders that crawl down his spine with musician’s finesse. There’s streaks of pearl white that slash the dark denim stretched across Pete’s thighs, that mark him up with splashes of Patrick, with white heat that screams his possession. It pulses on, hot and endless, pounding through his bloodstream and into his ears until his skin is burning with it, singing with it, soaring aloft and weightless as he strokes and fucks and cries out nonsensical syllables all tangled up with Pete’s name.

 

He’s barely finished when Pete joins him, slips up so he’s straddling his stomach and releases the slick shine of his own come across Patrick’s torso, across his stomach and chest as he stares up, eyes wide with surprise and a gut that clenches tight with need. Pete growls out his name with eyes pressed closed like he’s hiding secrets, nails biting hard into the flesh of Patrick’s shoulder as he shudders through his release, grunting out soft little breaths as he stutters through the aftershocks, as Patrick traces his fingers through the slick of it, licks bitter salt from the tips and thinks - because he’s seventeen goddamit - give him five minutes and he’s good to do this. He’ll lean over the couch and let Pete fuck him until he forgets everything he knows, he’ll take it all and demand more, he’ll-

 

“Patrick? Honey, you home?” His mom’s voice rings down the stairs as she clatter-clacks across the hardwood floor in her heels and power suit. 

 

“Shit fuck,” Patrick gasps as he shoves Pete off him and snatches as his jeans, dragging them up where they snag against sweat damp skin and scowling an instruction to a grinning, blissed out Pete. “Put your fucking cock away, asswipe! Before she comes looking for us.”

 

“Relax, you’ll live longer,” Pete smirks as he tucks away his dick and straightens his shirt, watching with that maddening smile as Patrick struggles into his jeans and casts about wildly for his shirt.

 

“Not when my mom fucking _murders_ me for fucking you in the basement,” he hisses, irritated that Pete doesn’t fucking get it. He finds the shirt - aha! - half buried between the couch cushions and slips it on. “But first she’ll fucking kill _you_ for corrupting me.”

 

“You didn’t fuck me,” Pete points out with a grin.

 

“Semantics,” Patrick snarls as he tugs his Converse back on and heads for the stairs. “Hey, mom, just down here.”

 

It’s easy enough to swing a kick at Pete’s midsection as he snakes a hand to squeeze Patrick’s crotch as they climb the stairs, a small spark of satisfaction burning in his chest at the pained yelp that scores the thump of sneaker meeting flesh. Then he’s in the hallway and smiling at his mom as Pete makes polite _yes, Mrs Stumph_ sort of noises in the background. Then he’s blushing a furious bloom of blazing crimson as she touches his shirt with a frown and murmurs, to Pete’s amusement over her shoulder, both middle fingers waving frantically at Patrick, “Why on _earth_ is this inside out?”

 

*

 

The shows get better. It takes a while but with a couple of songs Patrick scrawled in his room late at night, chin propped on his hand as he doodled his way across spiral-bound notebooks, chewing the end of his pen thoughtfully, they feel almost like a real band. He writes in pop culture references, he writes a John Hughes movie in song but it kind of works and Pete only grimaces a couple times when they pull them together into something playable. It breaks up the covers and it starts to feel real, standing out on tiny stages - by which he means a cleared spot in the corner of whichever room they happen to be playing in - with a crowd pressed in close enough to touch. 

 

The next decent show takes place in another university and Ben is long gone, it’s Mike now. He’s okay, Patrick doesn’t really care much either way as Pete roars into a microphone over a room that doesn’t give much of a shit whether they’re there or not, “We’re Ronald Reagan’s Russian Roulette.”

 

And Patrick grins - shit-eating, Pete might call it - as someone in the crowd that sounds suspiciously like Chris, screams right back, “Fuck that, no, you’re fucking Fall Out Boy!”

 

And so it’s settled. 

 

They’re fucking Fall Out Boy.

 

It continues in much the same way as the band evolves, drummers seem to pass by like water through their fingers. When Mike leaves on the cusp of some recording time at a shitty little one man band of a studio out in Wisconsin, he’s swiftly replaced by Jared. It’s last minute and rushed and Patrick’s pretty sure he’s on the verge of a goddamn aneurysm by the time Pete sweeps in all casual shrugs and toothy grins like it didn’t even matter, like he was never concerned. Patrick wants to smack him square in the mouth but resists, he’s trying his best to repress some of that rage that always swirls just below the surface. It’s always okay because Pete always knows a guy, always has a stand in, someone that can take the sticks for a few hours and thrash through their covers with a half assed shrug. Some of them even stick it out for weeks, hell, Mike had lasted a couple months, but sooner or later they all move on. 

 

They’re slumped like zombies, Patrick, Joe and Pete, in front of Star Wars with popcorn, chips and soda forming a mountain of sugar and trans fats on his mom’s expensive coffee table when Pete poses a question with the usual level of dramatic song and dance.

 

“You guys ever heard of Andy Hurley?” He name drops like it doesn’t matter, like he doesn’t know he’ll stir a reaction.

 

“Fuck you,” Joe rolls his eyes and buries an orange hued fist back into the sack of Cheetos on his lap. “You didn’t get us Hurley.”

 

“Fuck yourself. Might not have got him yet, but I’m working on it,” Pete sniffs, cramming another Magic Middle into his mouth and continuing around a spray of crumbs and fudge smeared lips. “I’m Pete goddamn Wentz. That _means_ something in Chicago.”

 

“It _means_ you think a lot more of yourself than anyone else thinks of you, dipshit” Patrick points out, punctuating his burn with a mouthful of Mountain Dew. “You’ve got a God complex, Wentz.”

 

“Explains a lot,” Pete quirks an eyebrow as he licks crumbs from his fingers with filth and promises hidden in every swipe of his tongue. 

 

“Which means?” Joe prompts.

 

“Ask Patrick,” Pete’s all sly grin and narrowed eyes as he sighs a breathy moan. “Oh _God,_ Pete, oh _God,_ yes, more, just like that…”

 

Joe laughs like it’s a joke and Patrick scowls because it’s not, it’s his own words whispered back at him from three nights ago in the back of Pete’s Edsel, legs spread and dick hard as a hot, wet mouth worked him over. He throws an elbow into Pete’s ribs with a glare, doesn’t laugh when they do, jerks away as tanned fingers reach out to ruffle his hair. Pete’s salvation - because Patrick will punch him in his goddamn throat, he swears to God - is delivered in the form of the telephone springing into life in the hallway and he’s skidding on socks across polished hardwood to snatch it up.

 

“Hello?” He’s already reaching for a pen, ready to jot down whichever message is left for his mom.

 

“Patrick?” Will’s voice cracks a whip of recognition straight down Patrick’s spine with a stomach lurching jerk. “Patrick, man, where the fuck _are_ you?”

 

“I, uh…” Oh shit, fuck. He’s forgotten, how the fuck could he forget?

 

“No,” Will’s voice sounds close to breaking, a tremor hidden under a fuck you snarl. “I know where you are, because you answered the phone. What the hell, man? I’m stood outside the theatre and… What the _fuck,_ Patrick?”

 

Labyrinth. 

 

They were going to see Labyrinth. Will’s spent the whole week at school reminding him, checking he’s still okay for it, glowing with the excitement that for once it doesn’t clash with a practice or a show or something else that always seems to take up Patrick’s time at the moment. Patrick’s been excited too, well, it’s fucking _Bowie_ and they don’t hang out enough any more, he’s missed Will with a quiet sort of ache low in his chest. Patrick promised, he swore he’d make the time for the movie and a burger and here he is, sitting in his house with his cooler friends while Will stands in a payphone booth alone. 

 

“I…” Patrick trails off in desperation, he’s the lowest of the low - don’t look at him like that, he _knows,_ okay - he’s a shitty friend, a horrible person. He casts about for something to say that will make it okay, that will soothe Will and fix their quickly crumbling friendship. “Listen, I can be there in like, thirty minutes, just-”

 

“You know what, Patrick?” The crack gives and the fury pours out. “Don’t fucking bother. Have fun with _Pete,_ yeah? Maybe if I sucked your dick you might fit me in but I guess you just have better things to do now, huh? Go to hell, shithead.”

 

“Will, please, just…” It’s an exercise in futility, the dial tone rings in his ear like a deafening accusation. His head marks a rhythmic thump against the wall in front of him, handset cradled to his chest as he wonders if he should just shove on his sneakers and rush across town to the theatre. There’s no point, Will won’t be there, won’t talk to Patrick even if he is. 

 

“I gotta bounce,” Joe interrupts his thoughts with a bright smile and a hug that smells of Dorito dust and Pepsi. “Got a date.”

 

“Sure,” Patrick nods absently, mind still in the elsewhere of betrayed friendship and his own questionable loyalty. “Is Pete…?”

 

“Yeah, he’s said he’s staying to finish the movie,” Joe’s out of the door in a whirlwind of noise and energy. “Try not to kill him, dude. We have enough shit trying to keep a drummer, don’t make me look for another bassist.”

Ten minutes later, pinned under Pete on the couch, jeans undone and hard cocks rutting and grinding against one another, hands pinned over his head as bright teeth nip a scorching line from his ear to his collarbone, Patrick would find it almost impossible to remember Will’s name. He doesn’t need it, you see, not when the only word he knows, the only one that rings through him like echoing screams of desperate need and dark desire is _Pete._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for taking the time to read, I really do appreciate it. 
> 
> Feedback is always nice, comments if you have the time and kudos if you don't... Hey, do you suppose we could hit 100 kudos this week? I'd be so stoked!
> 
> For those of you wondering about the references in the band names (and those of you that haven't paid attention in history class), the Cold War was in full swing during the 1980s as Russia and the USA swung their dicks in a game of chicken involving nuclear weapons. Fun times!


	5. That's Why They Call 'Em Crushes. If They Were Easy, They'd Call 'Em Something Else.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick makes a mistake...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for coming back! Are we ready for another rollercoaster tour of the suburbs of Chicago in 1986? Radical! The chapter title is taken from 16 Candles (no, not _that_ 16 Candles, the _movie_ 16 Candles).
> 
> Of course, another huge thank you to laudanum_cafe for checking everything over for me and being awesome.

“And like, you know that fucker’s up to something with Iran, you know?” Pete blows out a breath and waves his hand at something - Patrick really isn’t sure what - eyes slits of gold against the dark of his lashes. “Weapons, it’s got to be weapons. Fucking _Reagan,_ man…”

 

“Hmm,” Patrick hums in a fashion he hopes conveys how little he wants to be part of this conversation right now. Pete doesn’t do subtle hints though, it’s been three months since he joined this stupid band, Patrick should’ve learnt this by now - Patrick knows he’s not that smart.

 

“It’s just, like, you know when something’s up, right?” Pete continues, the lack of interest from his audience apparently not concerning him. “Reagan and Iran? _So_ up. Like, barf me out the goddamn door for a minute.”

 

“Mmhmm,” Patrick rolls his eyes. Okay, yeah, he gets it, the dude likes to get political. But right now, Patrick is trying to concentrate and Pete’s monologue isn’t exactly helping.

 

“I’ll bet it’s Israel in the middle of this, gotta be,” Pete ruminates with a frown. “Reagan sucking Khamenei’s dick and fucking Herzog is like _pass me the fucking lube dudes, I’ll slip in a finger-”_

 

Patrick pulls back, Pete’s half-hard cock slipping from between his lips as he swipes away the spit with the back of his wrist. He’s scowling like a curse as he sits back on his knees and - alright, yeah, he’ll admit it - he’s just a little bit fucking pissed off right now.

 

“Could you maybe shut the fuck up about fucking _Reagan_ while I’m sucking your dick?” He snaps, burning with irritation and the overwhelming urge to throw a punch. He pauses to gesture at Pete’s pretty much entirely limp dick with a scowl - he’s not hurt, don’t be fucking ridiculous… okay, maybe just a little - and snarl out his annoyance. “And what the fuck is that all about? I thought you said I was good at this?”

 

They both glance down at Pete’s cock, still slick with spit but close to soft. Patrick’s burning with embarrassed fury, he can feel the bloom of it bright on his cheeks as he scowls down at fists clenched against his thighs. Is Pete thinking about the chick with the mohawk from the last show? The one he fucked in the back of the van while the rest of them wound cables and drank cheap beer? Patrick only knows the details because Pete told him, whispered them like a filthy parody of a bedtime story as they drove back across Illinois in the muted fluorescent glow of the highway. He wove pretty words into a vicious picture of where he’d trailed his tongue, where he’d thrust his cock that had left Patrick hard and flushed but not for her, no, only for Pete. Is he thinking about her and her curves and looking at Patrick and his boy’s body, imagining the dick he’ll be expected to suck in return and cringing inside with disgust? 

 

“Come on, don’t be such a little bitch,” Pete smiles with the edges all soft, traces fingers through Patrick’s hair - he’s growing it a little, his mom sniffs in annoyance but Pete says he likes it - and gusts a sigh. “It’s the meds, man. They fuck with my junk. I can still suck _your_ dick though…”

 

“Nah,” Patrick shrugs, his own cock soft again in his pants, the furious throbbing press of it gone from against his zipper. Pete actually managed to bore the erection off a seventeen year old. “You killed the mood, man. All I can picture is fucking Reagan.”

 

He doesn’t object - why would he? - when Pete pulls him close, closer, close enough to kiss, although he doesn’t follow through. He straddles Pete’s hips and rests his head against the thud-thump of his heart, sighs as those fingers go right back to carding through his hair.

 

“When’re you gonna let me fuck _you?”_ Pete asks like it’s a joke, Patrick closes his eyes because if it’s meant to be funny, he doesn’t get it. If it’s not supposed to hurt then why do his eyes sting? Patrick aches for it to be him - it’s dumb, ridiculous, stupid, he _knows,_ alright? - he wants to be the one they mutter about with jealousy. The one that’s with Pete - _oh yeah, Patrick, he’s dating Pete Wentz._ He wants tanned fingers to lace with his and drag him from the crowd like he’s not ashamed of where they’re going. But he can’t say that, can he?

 

Wait… _can_ he?

 

“When’re _you_ gonna take me on a date?” He counters, emboldened by forcing himself not to look, examining the tattoo of an intricate rose blossoming against the toffee of Pete’s bicep. “I’m not expensive but, like, dinner and a movie first, yeah?”

 

The laughter is entirely expected but still stings and throbs against Patrick’s skin, still scores bruises against his heart that he won’t display. It still hurts even though he laughs too, even though there’s something bitter lurking at the back of his tongue. Something sharp and spiteful and ugly that he wants to throw at Pete for not caring, not being what he wants him to be - not that it matters, it doesn’t matter, okay? - for just… Not. 

 

“Okay then,” he pushes up, hands braced to Pete’s chest as he stares down at him, ass pressed flush to Pete’s crotch as he presses back and down against nothing but a soft cock. “Do it. Go ahead and fuck me, right now.”

 

“Very funny, P,” Pete starts to smile but Patrick cuts him off, fueled with fire and venom that he spits down at Pete for not understanding, for not _deserving._

 

“Still limp?” He smirks even though it hurts - Pete’s not hard because he’s not turned on, he’s not turned on because Patrick is a dude - quirks an eyebrow like it’s a joke but no one’s laughing. Pete’s not the only one that can strike hurt with a smile.

 

“Hey man, fuck you,” Pete snaps, shoving Patrick to the side as he swings his legs down from the bed. He’s flushed bright with anger or hurt or humiliation, Patrick isn’t sure, doesn’t care - so fucking sue him, alright? - just wants to hang on to the control he knows he doesn’t really have. “It’s the fucking Lithium. What? You want me to go get you the fucking _pamphlet,_ asshole? D’you think it’s fucking funny? You think I _like_ having no fucking control over my own goddamn dick?”

 

There’s shame sharp in Patrick’s chest but he’s not done yet, not even close. For three months he’s been knocked onto the back foot, constantly struggling to keep up with whatever the fuck it is Pete’s supposed to want from him. Pete wanted him to ditch his drums and sing - he did it, didn’t he? Pete wanted him to suck his dick, wanted him to lie back and finger himself while he watched, wanted, wanted, fucking _wanted_ and Patrick _did it._ Isn’t it enough? Hasn’t he done enough to prove himself in whatever fucked up way Pete needs him to?

 

“You’re so full of shit,” Patrick sneers and it feels good to see Pete’s hands sharpen to fists against the comforter, to watch him break apart a little under the façade of arrogance. “Oh, _it’s the pills, Patrick._ It wasn’t the fucking pills when you were fucking _her,_ was it? Your dick worked just fine. It’s just now, isn’t it? Just with me, you and your fucking limp cock, why don’t you-”

 

The sting in his lip blooms bright, hot with the salted copper of blood that coats his tongue, that smudges Pete’s knuckles as Patrick’s head snaps back from the force of the punch. He’s pinned to the bed with hands over his wrists as Pete snarls fire and fury into his face, as spit flecks his cheeks and he smirks up into angry eyes that spark with passion. Pete presses down his hips, grinds the barely hard press of his cock into Patrick’s and hisses into his ear, “Go ahead, call me fucking limp dick again.”

 

“Fuck you,” Patrick snaps, wondering if he has the range to smash his forehead into Pete’s nose, deciding in a moment that he doesn’t, not unless he wants to dislocate both shoulders. He thrashes and bucks but Pete is stronger, it doesn’t seem to take any effort for him to pin Patrick in place. He’s not expecting it, but not exactly opposed, when lips crash into his, when stubble burns the rip of his lip, as it coaxes the swell of sharp-tasting blood.

 

Pete’s tongue curls against his, lapping the blood from his lip and the insult dies in Patrick’s throat. He can just arch his back as Pete slides down the bed and yanks down his jeans, biting down on the heel of his hand to mask the moans as a hot mouth sinks over his cock and blunt fingers press - dry and burning - inside of him. It’s quick and hard, it’s the scrape of teeth dragged over him in a warning that snarls _this is what you deserve._ It’s smudges of bruises, red and angry, pinched into his thighs. It’s almost as much pain as pleasure and Patrick fucking _glows_ with it. 

 

He can’t last long, although he never wants it to end. Pete’s sucking him to prove a point, there’s dominance in each drag of his mouth against the heat of Patrick’s prick. He gropes for the back of Pete’s head and drags him down as he shoots down his throat, as the twitch of his hips presses to the bob of Pete’s head. It’s heated tingles, that pulse through his cock and shudder his spine, tremors that shake like aftershocks as his head rolls back and his mouth falls slack. He doesn’t object beyond a weak _that’s fucking gross, dude,_ as Pete crawls back over him and, with pursed lips full of promise, drizzles come into Patrick’s mouth.

 

It’s ownership and dominance. It’s pissing up his leg and marking him out. It’s making him Pete’s.

 

Patrick slithers and slides on soft cotton sheets, knees still tangled in the tight denim of his jeans, the taste of blood and come slicked to his mouth. He shifts until he’s level with the thick heat of Pete’s cock. He’s hard now, hard and leaking drops of bitter pearl that Patrick licks and tastes with fervour because - fuck them all, fuck those girls - this is all for _him._ This stiff prick, flushed dark and hot as blood, it’s for _Patrick_ and he sucks him down like he’ll die if he doesn’t, takes him in deep in the way that he’s learnt, the way that doesn’t make him gag anymore as Pete hits the back of his throat. He’s actually pretty proud of that.

 

It stings a little when Pete comes in his mouth, hand fisted into his hair like a warning, bitter salt seeping into the split on his lip and burning bright. The poster from school taunts a warning to Patrick, all bold red text about open wounds and come. It’ll be fine, he decides, Pete said he was clean, didn’t he? 

 

Although, Patrick is starting to wonder how he could possibly know if Pete was telling the truth. 

 

*

 

Lyrics are a constant source of contention for the band. It feels like they’re dragging in three different directions, stretched taut and close to splitting. Jared doesn’t give a shit, this band isn’t permanent for him, he doesn’t waste his time pretending it is. Patrick kind of wants to quit too - yes, he knows, he has no fucking staying power - but Joe is all eager smiles and showing up on his driveway in his crappy van to herd him to practice. 

 

Pete hates Patrick’s lyrics. He doesn’t even try to hide the way he rolls his eyes at each line, the way he sighs, bored, as Patrick and Joe try to work through something they’ve written. Okay - Patrick’s not gonna lie - it’s pissing him off more than just a little. He’s _trying,_ okay. He’s making the goddamn effort to make this shitty little band worth something which is more than can be said for Pete goddamn Wentz who thinks dropping the name _Andy Hurley_ at every practice is all the input he needs to give. Okay, fucking _newsflash,_ asshole, Hurley isn’t interested. He’s made it clear he has enough going on, he doesn’t want to take a shot in the dark with yet another punk startup playing out of basements, shitty bars and community centres.

 

To be honest, Patrick sees _exactly_ where he’s coming from. 

 

They’ve been arguing over lyrics for an hour, practice has ground to a halt and Joe looks ready to start cracking skulls. The song is _decent_ enough, Patrick supposes, but it’s not special, it’s not speaking to him in the way he expects a song to do. Pete wants to write in politics but Patrick can sense the shift, it’s not the 70s any more and they’re not the goddamn Sex Pistols - ch’yeah, right, Pete _wishes_ \- they need to move forward, need to follow the flow of the scene. 

 

He’s sitting, cross-legged on the floor with his acoustic guitar cradled in the crook of his arm, scrawled pages spread out on the floor in front of him as he taps a beat against his teeth with a pen. He stares at the pages and tries to ignore the irritating noises Pete is making, the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the low, whistling breaths he keeps taking through his nose, the way he taps the heels of his hands against his thighs to a song that _isn’t fucking playing._

 

“Would you shut the fuck up or get the fuck out?” Patrick snarls through teeth gritted tight with annoyance. It’s all he feels recently, just hurt and anger and crushing desperation that maybe this is all Pete’s ever going to give him. “Hey, maybe you could go make another fucking pointless call to Hurley? See if it’s the twelfth of fucking never yet?”

 

“You’re an ass,” Pete informs hims without any indication that he’s offended. Patrick’s eyes narrow; fuck that guy.

 

“Help me write the goddamn song, then,” Patrick’s very thin hold on his temper frays snaps and twangs back into his face in the same clutch of stuttered seconds. “D’you think you’re bringing anything to this band at the minute?”

 

“I play the bass,” Pete shrugs, infuriating as always.

 

_“I_ play the bass,” Patrick bellows, hands a flurry of sharp movement as he brings his middle finger very close to Pete’s nose - childish, childish, he knows, yes, stop it - just for emphasis. _“Joe_ plays the bass. Fuck, you’re hardly the best bassist in the world… You’re not even the best bassist in the goddamn _band_ right now! So fuck you, pick up a pen, and get fucking contributing.”

 

He’s still standing, trembling with rage, the knuckle of his middle finger kissed lightly to the tip of Pete’s nose. Pete’s almost cross-eyed as though he’s trying to decide if he should stare at Patrick or stare at his finger, hand reaching up to close around Patrick’s wrist and he hopes - shit, fuck, he _hopes_ \- that asshole can’t feel the frantic flutter of his pulse. He’s still standing and he’s still waiting for Pete to say something, to _do_ something, to show he gives the slightest shit about this band he promised would conquer the world. Because right now, right at this moment, Patrick’s not sure they could conquer the local kindergarten. 

 

Joe has left the room in search of a snack and the room rings with their breathing, heavy and hard. It’s not an unfamiliar sountrack. The silence beats on between them, Pete’s hand still around his wrist, amber eyes still regarding him with the kind of piercing stare that makes him want to drop his gaze. But he won’t. Not even as Pete reaches up and, very deliberately, touches the tip of one finger to the healing slash that bisects his lip. It’s a warning. Patrick wants to bite his goddamn finger off. 

 

“Okay, Baby P,” Pete whispers like a promise that weakens Patrick’s knees and he wishes he wasn’t so goddamn enraptured by the pretty fucking dickweed. Because - and don’t like, judge him for this or anything - Patrick is _ready_ for Pete to fuck him. He jacks himself raw thinking about it, fills himself full of his own fingers as he coats himself in his own come late at night. He wants him so badly and the tension buzzes between them like electric shocks. But right now nothing can happen, with Joe a room away and the floor littered with thoughts that don’t feel personal to Patrick, there’s nothing more than an ache. Pete knows and Pete hums a laugh, touches his lip once more and murmurs softly. “What do you want me to do?”

 

Patrick wants Pete to fuck him, wants him to push him down to the floor and just fucking… take him. He wants tender lips and arms that hold him close like a promise. He wants all of that stupid girl stuff from the movies and he’s sure, if he just gives it up to Pete then that’s what he’ll get. Of course, he can’t say that so instead he presses a pen into Pete’s hand and points to the pages littering the floor, “Write. Write me a love song, a political march, a fucking _nursery rhyme,_ I don’t fucking care. Just help me.”

 

“You don’t like me much, do you?” Pete asks, playful-soft. Patrick pauses as he considers his answer, stares into the burning glow of Pete’s eyes before he mutters his reply.

 

Patrick considers his answer, speaks it like a confession, “I like us better alone.”

 

Pete grins, that silly smile that flashes toothy-bright and chubby-cheeked, the smile that raises Patrick’s pulse and quickens his breathing. It’s the smile he pictures with his dick in his hand in the shower, the smile Pete flashes in the moments before he sucks down Patrick’s cock. It’s the smile Patrick snarls at as he pivots on his heel and snatches the guitar back up from the floor, plopping down onto the carpet and strumming along with the lyrics in front of him, singing soft under his breath.

 

_Caffeine cold, caffeine cold, and I can’t see shit._

 

*

 

When Patrick finds the flyer in Pete’s room, he tries not to think too much about it, dropped carelessly onto his nightstand. It’s just one amongst a jumble of random flyers, take out menus, and random pages of scrawled words that Patrick can’t read. Pete’s handwriting is fucking awful. But the flyer stands out because it’s so different in its innocuousness. It’s professionally printed for one thing, not the terrible hand drawn scribbles that form their own flyers, hastily photocopied at the office of one parent or another.

 

No, this is neat, typed up and plain. There’s no anarchy symbols of badly drawn pictures, just a neat type face and words that don’t seem like something that would interest Pete.

 

It’s an open mic poetry reading at some coffee shop on the DePaul campus. Patrick’s seen enough of university campuses by now to know exactly the kind of asshole that hangs out at a poetry slam and it doesn’t make any sense that Pete would have hung onto the flyer if it had been pressed into his hand by an eager English major. Which leaves one possibility, as far as Patrick can see it; Pete is going with someone. A date with another pretty Not Patrick, another girl that will hang onto his arm and smile at him like he’s the epicentre of it all. 

 

Patrick stings with jealousy, with utter raging hopeless fury as he slips the flyer back exactly where he found it. But he’s memorised the details, repeating them softly under his breath until they burn their way onto his tongue. He’s memorised them because he has every intention of going - yeah, he gets it, it’s _weird_ \- every intention of making that asshole realise. He’s not sure what he’ll realise in the middle of a pretentious coffee shop surrounded by beat poets with a pretty Not Patrick but he’s sure it’ll have a profound sort of effect.

 

He dresses carefully for the occasion - his old high waisted Calvin Kleins and a pastel pink shirt, he even jams a cap over his hair so the peak shades his eyes for added stealth. He takes the piss trolley and sits, leg bouncing nervously against the chair as the carriage drags and winds through the city. Just a kid staring out of the window, although he wonders if anyone knows. If they look at him and see the hurt and desperation that haze his vision because this is the last time - he swears it’s the last time - that Pete Wentz will make a goddamn fool of him. He just needs to see, needs confirmation of tan hands on a cute girl’s back, of lips whispering the same lies he murmurs to Patrick into a neck that smells of Poison perfume. 

 

The coffee shop is one of _those_ sort of places. The kind his dad sneers at when he goes to visit him in New York. The kind that sells _lattes_ and _cappuccinos_ like just _coffee_ is too good for them. The kind that puts on poetry slams filled with girls in black skirts and too much eyeliner and guys with hair like Will’s. Patrick orders something with lots of milk and sugar and takes a seat at the back, tucked away where he can watch. His heart taps a messy thrum against his ribs, pulsing wet and messy in the centre of his chest and crushing his lungs. He’s gasping into his cup, heaving breaths honeyed with caffeine and milk and burning steam. This was a terrible idea, just awful, he should leave.

 

But he can’t because the lights dim and the first performer moves to the stool at the front and goddammit he didn’t think this through. Plan your exits, that’s what every movie taught him and right now, his only escape leads him straight past the stage. He’s trapped in a room with Pete - _maybe?_ \- and his date - _possibly?_ \- and there’s no way out. But he can’t see a messy black mohawk, can’t see gold twisted with onyx on strong arms, can’t see a tooth-bright smile or copper-glow eyes. 

 

The poetry is awful, even Patrick knows that. It’s silly and pretentious with a jarring attempt to seem edgy and dark. It’s dumb teenage angst made flesh. It makes him laugh into his cup because maybe he was wrong. Maybe Pete just didn’t pay attention and dumped the flyer out with everything else onto his nightstand. Maybe Patrick’s just a jealous asshole that needs to calm down. Maybe Patrick feels a little stupid in his Jake Ryan shirt. Maybe.

 

Listen, it’s not that he thought this whole thing was a good idea. He didn’t, okay? He came here half-cocked and full-furious. He came here ready to yell and accuse. He came here ready to slink away and cry into his pillow. He came here for everything but he’s getting nothing because he’s a dumb fucking kid that reads into everything all wrong. He’ll leave when the next poet finishes, a quick slip past the stage and out into the fluorescent Chicago night. Back on the piss trolley and home to Glenview. 

 

There’s a dramatic clutch of words from the stage that make no sense, there’s polite applause and he’s draining his syrupy drink, scraping back his chair with eyes on the door. But there’s not enough time as the spotlight stolen from the theatre department stays focused, as the compere in his stupid beret announces the _Punk Prince of Poetry_ and Patrick is thudding back down into his chair. Patrick is gaping, all wide eyes and confusion and the Crown Prince takes his throne. Patrick is boggling slightly because from the Keds to the ripped Levis to the grungy tank, that Prince is well-known.

 

That Prince is _Pete._

 

Pete licks his lips behind the microphone, kicks his foot up against the leg of the stool and doesn’t seem to find it even remotely amusing that someone just introduced him as the _Punk Prince of_ fucking _Poetry._ Oh come on, don’t look at Patrick that way, it’s fucking _funny_ and - he’s already decided - Pete is getting about seven different kinds of shit for that. It’s funny enough to make him laugh softly into his empty cup as Pete lets an expectant sort of pause thrum through the room, as he rolls his eyes like he’s just so fucking _bored_ of society - seriously, he’s a fucking pretentious asshole - and finally, he begins to speak.

 

“I used to obsess over living, now I only obsess over you,” Pete starts, deep breath, shoulders soft but eyes sharp. Patrick sneers a little more into his cup because, seriously, what the fuck? Pete’s voice rises, bitter-sharp, “Tell me you like boys like me better, in the dark lying on top of you,” Patrick’s breathing catches at that, eyes sharp on Pete, “This has been said _so many times_ and I’m not sure if matters,” his voice drops, desperate with raw desire, “This has been said so many times and I’m not sure if it matters.”

 

Patrick feels the laughter wither on his tongue like burning venom. He’s heard these words before, not in that order and not the same polished flow of pretty syllables. But he’s heard the frantic whispered desperation, the words that burnt his skin in quiet places, hidden from sight. He’s heard it and it’s making sense that doesn’t come close to making sense. Because right now, in this uncomfortable chair with bitter coffee on his lips, it almost seems like Pete’s written a poem about him.

 

“From day one I talked about getting out, but not forgetting about, how all my worst fears are letting out,” Pete’s voice is a ring in Patrick’s ears, it’s the throbbing of his heart as the pain claws out of Pete and into Patrick’s chest, “He said “why put a new address, on the same old loneliness?” When breathing just passes the time, until we all just get old and die.”

 

Patrick wants to clamp his hands over his ears, wants to make it stop because - and it pains him to admit it - he’s _seventeen_ and he just isn’t equipped to deal with this. Whatever the fuck _this_ is supposed to be. Whatever the fuck Pete wants from him. Patrick will give it, he’ll give it with a cheerful smile even if it’s his last breath, but he doesn’t _know._

 

“Now talking’s just a waste of breath,” Pete continues, voice rising sharp and angry, “and living’s just a waste of death, and _why_ put a new address, on the same old loneliness, and this is you and me, and me and you, until we’ve got nothing left.”

 

The booming ring of the mic in it’s stand slamming to the ground, the raging screech of feedback really does have Patrick covering his ears. There’s faint applause and apathy from the crowd because even a Prince can’t make goths exhibit enthusiasm. Eyes lock with Patrick’s across the room like blows and he panics. Head ducked to coffee cup, the brim of his cap scraping the tabletop as he sits and huddles and prays that if he can’t see Pete, Pete can’t see him. Is that emus or ostriches? Are they the same? Jesus fuck, Patrick, does it _matter?_

 

“Look up,” Pete snarls from above him and Patrick can taste the anger that radiates from him as sharply as he can taste his cappuccino. “Did I fucking _stutter?_ Look at me, asshole.”

 

It hurts to look up, Patrick didn’t think it would physically sting to meet furious slits of amber agony scowling down at him. He leans back, to put some distance between them, to get away, to pretend it didn’t happen. It doesn’t work as Pete looms over him, as every eye in the room rests on them like a show but worse, like the crowd is made of knives. Patrick blushes and stammers and lame excuses his way through stuttered half sentences but there’s a hand twisted sharp in his collar and a rage in his ear.

 

“Get up, get on your goddamn feet and get out of here,” Pete spits. 

 

“I- I never- I can just-” Patrick’s feet don’t feel real, his legs lacking coordination as he staggers after Pete, hauled along by his shirt as the people stare, as the compere pauses, unsure.

 

“Pete, are you-” He asks as they pass the mic, as Pete kicks it to the side for good measure.

 

“I’m done,” Pete grunts, pushing Patrick like a kid, shoving and dragging and goddamn man-handling him outside onto the street, as he pushes him up against a wall and pins him with a sweat-hot hand against his shoulder. Patrick’s shivering, but it’s not cold, arms wrapped around his chest like it can keep him safe. He wants to snarl insults, wants to tell Pete if he ever touches him like that again he’ll break his goddamn hand. But something stops him. Something tells him that _he’s_ the asshole tonight. So he shivers and stares at the sidewalk and waits miserable and quiet.

 

“Want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing here?” Pete’s voice is too calm to be genuine, too level to be okay. Patrick knows - he _knows,_ okay - that he’s fucked up. He’s invaded something he had no right to be a part of. 

 

“I found the flyer,” Patrick mumbles, flushed hot and shameful, “I just thought maybe… I thought…”

 

“You thought you’d come and fucking spy on me?” Humiliated fury coats his words and Patrick feels like the world’s worst dickweed.

 

“I didn’t- I mean, that wasn’t-” Patrick’s going to have to start talking in sentences sooner rather than later if he doesn’t want to taste the salt on Pete’s knuckles once again. “I thought you had a date, okay?”

 

Pete’s eyes spring wide then narrow tight, his fingers twisting into Patrick’s collar as he hauls him up, as he leans in to snarl menace into his face, “And so what if I did? Hmm? What the fuck would it have to do with you?”

 

Patrick can’t answer. He _can’t_ okay? There’s nothing but a pathetic shrug and eyes on his sneakers as he shuffles against Pete’s fist. He can’t tell him about the jealousy that festers like a cancer. He can’t tell him how much the Not Patricks make his heart hurt. He can just shrug and stare and wait for Pete to let go or punch him. Preferably the former though he knows he’d deserve the latter. There’s that silence again, the same one that fell during practice, the one that’s loaded with something that Patrick doesn’t understand. The one that’s laced with their breathing and scented with the kind of sour regret that stings his skin raw.

 

“Get in the car,” Pete snaps, dropping him like he’s dirty. Patrick realises the Edsel is sagging against the curb. 

 

“Are we gonna-” There’s hope in his voice that he tries to keep from his eyes. The promise of sweaty back seats and steamed windows and maybe tonight, he can offer Pete everything. 

 

“I’m taking you home,” Pete cuts that dream off abruptly, stalking for the car with anger etched in each line of his body. Fury radiating from him as he climbs behind the wheel and slams the door, eyes never leaving the windshield as Patrick slides in meekly beside him. He reaches for the radio but Pete smacks his hand away so he draws up his knees, wraps his arms around them and stares out of the window as they roll through the city and into the suburbs. 

 

They’re passing Golf when Patrick notices it. Something lodged in the pocket of the door at his side. Something that looks like a notebook and he reaches for it hesitantly. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s a bad idea but he’s pissed Pete off already so might as well push him a little further.

 

“Is this your poetry?” He asks quietly. Pete just grunts. Okay, that’s not entirely helpful, he continues hesitantly. “Can I take a look?” Another grunt. 

 

He flips through the first few pages, the handwriting is neater in here, thoughts and dreams scored out on pale blue lines, a journal of Pete. It’s long-winded and loaded with literary references, it’s dream-like and twisted, it’s nightmares and love songs and it’s fucking _brilliant._

 

“We should use some of this,” Patrick mutters, raking through the notebook like he’s found the Ark of the fucking Covenant. “This is fucking _gold,_ Pete! I mean… It makes no fucking _sense_ but it’s… It’s pretty.”

 

“It’s _poetry,”_ Pete snaps angrily, snatching the notebook from between Patrick’s fingers with a look that suggests he’s trying hard not to sock him in the jaw. Patrick decides that’s probably a step in the right direction but wishes he’d pay a little more attention to the road as they swerve sharply to the left. “It’s not lyrics.”

 

“Our _lyrics,”_ and Patrick air quotes the word for maximum condescension, “are fucking _terrible._ This stuff is _good!_ It’s… It’s _heartfelt.”_

 

“It’s not lyrics,” Pete insists, stubborn resistance written on every line of his handsome face. Now it’s Patrick resisting the urge to throw a punch because _fuck,_ this is important, why won’t that asshole understand, just for once. “We’re a fucking punk band, punk bands don’t talk about _putting a new address on the same old loneliness_ and _pretty, pretty miscalculations-”_

 

“Why can’t they? Who says they can’t? Why are you so fucking _terrified_ of being different?” Patrick snarls, snatching the book from Pete’s hands and hurling it against the windshield. It hits with an unsatisfying, muted thump before dropping to the floor as he rounds on Pete, all squared shoulders and balled fists, a finger, sharp and unyielding, jabbing at the centre of his Social Distortion clad chest - not an easy feat as they sit side by side in a station wagon. “You think you’re so much _better_ than everyone else! So fucking _hardcore!_ Too fucking good for radio, that’s you, that’s Pete goddamn Wentz!”

 

They’re close to Patrick’s house now, just a couple blocks and they’ll be at the bottom of the driveway. Pete’s knuckles shine white as bone in the glow of the streetlights they’re passing, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he drives in stony silence. By the time they pull up outside the house the tension is unbearable and Patrick can feel his lips aching with the need to push to Pete’s. He reaches out, all tentative touch, intent on stroking the hair the nape of Pete’s neck, the thick, coarseness of it. But Pete jerks away with a sharp _“don’t”_ and Patrick’s hand drops back to his lap as he burns with embarrassment. What are they, exactly? The question lingers between them unasked. 

 

“Can I take the notebook?” Patrick asks - give him that at least, it’s not much to ask - voice soft and unsure. “Maybe… Let me try and write a song from some of it. If you hate it, that’s fine but- but let me try?”

 

Pete doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no, and after a minute or more of anxious, agonising silence, Patrick scoops the notebook from the footwell - the one he’s knelt in to suck Pete’s dick - and slips out of the car. He’s going to turn, to call goodbye through the open window but Pete pulls away as soon as the door thumps closed. 

 

Patrick thinks he might be in love. 

 

Patrick thinks Pete might hate him.

 

Patrick is terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you were wondering what Pete was rambling about whilst Patrick was trying his best to suck his cock, he was talking about the Iran-Contra affair that was right on the brink of coming to light when this chapter took place. Basically, Pete was right and would no doubt be horribly insufferable about it in the weeks to come. History class concluded.
> 
> As usual, if you enjoyed it let me know with a comment or the kudos button or come chat to me on Tumblr at sn1tchesandtalkers.
> 
> Have a wonderful day!


	6. Reality Is Very Disappointing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick discovers the downsides of lying...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back, hope you're all having a fantastic week so far!
> 
> The chapter title this week is taken from the movie Mannequin which, technically, is a little away from our timeline as it wasn't released until 1987 but I'm sure you'll all cut me some slack, right?

Patrick works his ass off with the notebook, he sits in his room, hunched over his guitar and a notebook, working and reworking and scoring out a dozen different useless possibilities. Because he knows it has to glow, he knows it has to be perfectly, immeasurably _right_ if it’s going to be sufficient to convince Pete. He doesn’t know _what_ exactly he’s trying to write but he’s sure once he’s done it, once it’s on the page and in his hands in the form of fingers moving against frets and strings, once his throat contracts with it just like it does for Pete, _then_ he’ll know.

 

Once he’s done it, once he’s cracked the secret code, slid the key into the lock in just the right way, then Pete will be okay with him again. Because things haven’t been right at practice since that night at the poetry slam. Things are tense and awkward and uncomfortable in ways Patrick can’t pretend he understands. There are no more stolen kisses, no more touches that spark him like fire crackling a burn over his skin. There are no more nights in the backseat of an ugly car while a hot, wet mouth works his hot, wet cock until it’s spit and come and grasping hands that bind them.

 

Patrick’s ready and Pete’s pulling back.

 

Joe is still the driving force of the band, the one that arranges the practices, the one that books the shows, that posts the demo cassette to every label that poses even half a chance of having an intern listen to it. Patrick would happily devote his summer days entirely to Pete, to lying on his bed and mapping a love song of ink with his lips and his fingers. He wants Pete to paint him a masterpiece of desire, wants him to scrape his possession into the canvas of Patrick’s skin with teeth and nails and _want._ He supposes the band is a good enough distraction for now.

 

Just for now. 

 

For now he scrawls until he weaves a song for them both with Pete’s poetry and his music. For now he lets it wrap around him like he can will the words into a reality of mouths and hands and aching cocks. For now he thinks the lullaby of lust might just be winding it’s way around them. Pete’s words that he hopes are for him, coupled with Patrick’s music that’s all for Pete, all of it for Pete. Everything.

 

_But out of every pretty pretty miscalculation_

_You have got to be my all-time favorite_

 

Was it for him? Did Pete sit in some hidden place and swirl the ink onto the page for Patrick? Is _he_ the favourite pretty miscalculation or is it someone else, one of the Not Patricks that led Pete to quiet places to exchange words loaded with insincerity and dressed with sweat and spit. He’s holding onto something he can’t know is real, he’s leaping headlong into freefall with no idea if his parachute works, if it’s even there or if he’s just plummeting to his end. He’s placing so much faith in a man he’s sure can’t stand the sight of him and it makes no sense but he’s sure of it. He’s so sure. It rests on the song.

 

Everything rests on the song.

 

_Love, sex, death_

_Til there’s nothing left_

 

*

 

“But seriously, dude, did you _see_ Mr Barker’s face? He was all _I don’t think that’s appropriate,_ fucking asshole,” Will snickers down the phone and Patrick, head rolled back against his pillow, decides it’s pretty goddamn _nice_ just to chat to his best friend. Everything with Pete has made everything tense and awkward, made Will act like Patrick thinks he’s something he’s not, made him sneer the name _rockstar_ at him every time he’s mentioned a practice or a show. Made him snarl until Patrick shuts up every time he tries to talk about the confusion Pete sparks in his chest and makes him swirl with.

 

“Fuck man, I know, dude needs to bag his goddamn _face,”_ Patrick smiles and wriggles his toes against the comforter. They’ve been talking for an hour, the longest they’ve managed without bitching at one another since Patrick didn’t show at the movies. It sparks something in Patrick’s chest, some barely covered urge to hang out with his friend, to spend some time with him, he’s hesitant hope as he continues, voice soft with the promise of rejection. “Hey, are you like, _busy_ tonight or anything?”

 

“No,” Will’s just as cautious, wrapped in a shield of you-won’t-hurt-me-again as he speaks. “I’m just hanging out at home.”

 

“I was just thinking,” Patrick’s thinking the movies, he’s thinking that burger place they both like near the grocery store, he’s thinking sitting on a bench in the park and talking shit until curfew. “Do you think we could maybe…”

 

_“Baby P?”_ There’s a note of theatre to the voice calling from below his open window, something soft and dangerous wrapped in make believe and pretend.

 

Patrick’s head snaps up from his pillow, eyes trained bright on his window because this can’t be happening right now, that asshole doesn’t have timing _this_ fucking bad, “Just a second man, I think I heard my mom yelling.”

 

He pads on soft soles to the window, peering down into the street, knowing with a sense of blooming dread that mingles with heart shattering hope what he’s going to see. Pete lounges against the side of his car, hand raised in a casual wave, free hand tucked in the pocket of his jeans. He’s impossibly pretty cast in marble by moonlight like a fucking Roman statue or a Greek God, all angular lines of chiselled cheekbones, flush lips and lithe muscle. At least he’s not throwing fucking rocks this time.

 

“What do you want?” Patrick calls down quietly - it’s barely 9, anyone could hear them. 

 

“You,” Pete grins with sparkling ease that hums through Patrick’s chest and paints his vision white, turns his lungs red and messy. There’s so many things that word could mean. It could mean practice and pizza with Joe and whoever the fuck is standing in on the drums this week. It could mean a show in a sweaty basement somewhere, throwing themselves at bodies that bounce like orbiting satellites until there’s blood and bruises, bust lips and black eyes. It could mean touches heated like fire in the back seat of the car against the curb, it could mean whispered promises that don’t mean anything and spreading himself open for Pete to take, take, fucking _please_ take. “There’s a party, you coming?”

 

That’s not the best option, Patrick is the first to admit - don’t judge him, okay - but it’s definitely not the worst. It’s not an option that promises him the world he knows Pete can show him, but it’s time together, it’s music and probably beer and maybe a stolen kiss in a dark room. Patrick’s never been to a _real_ party before, not the kind with cool people like Pete, not even a lame high school party with half a keg of Miller stolen from someone’s dad’s garage and a dozen or more half-empty bottles of spirits lined up on the kitchen counter. This has promise, this could be fun and - Patrick’s can’t stress this enough - Pete is smiling toothily at him like he cares, like Patrick is the most important person in the world to him right in this moment of locked eyes across the silvered lawn. 

 

“Okay,” he nods all eager haste. “Just let me get some… Hey,” he flashes a glance at the hamburger phone on his bed, “Can I bring someone with me?”

 

He pretends not to notice how Pete frowns just a little, just creeping in at the edges but he knows - he fucking _knows_ with a sour sort of sinking in his gut - he’s done the wrong thing. But he’s said it now so he waits, head half cocked and watches Pete gust a tiny sigh, watches the dark brows draw down before he speaks, “Sure. Whatever.”

 

He can imagine it’s okay even as he fumbles for the handset, voice a giddy hum on telephone lines as he garbles at Will, “Tell your mom you’re staying at my place, put on something that doesn’t make you look like Robert goddamn Smith and meet me at the corner of Glenview in, like, ten minutes.”

 

“Patrick, what the fuck are we…” Will trails off for a moment. “Wait. Is… is Pete there?”

 

“Sorta,” Patrick admits as he struggles into his Chucks and, once again, pretends he doesn’t hear the hum of disappointment from one of the people he’s trying to desperately to please in a balancing act he doesn’t seem to be able to perfect. “Look, it’s just-”

 

“I’m not sitting in on a date like some kind of asshole,” he begins sharply. “I don’t need your fucking pity, Patrick.”

 

“No,” Patrick rushes to reassure him, shoes laced and finger hovering over the end call button. “We’re going to a party, man. Like… a fuckin’ _killer,_ real, fuckin’ _radical_ party. Ten minutes… Please?”

 

Please let him fix this, whatever it is that’s going wrong with him and Will, whatever rips he’s put into the fabric of the thing that makes up him and Pete, please let tonight tack the stitches in place to bind it all back up again. He examines himself quickly in the mirror - the jeans are ripped up casually now after a few months of hard wear, the Misfits shirt is starting to wash out and fade, there’s give and creasing in the collar he fastens around his throat and the suspenders sit snug against his shoulders. He looks real, he looks part of the scene, no matter how much he still feels like a terrified kid most of the time. 

 

Pete’s already in the car when Patrick hurries across the lawn, already leaning across with the sparkle restored in his smile, with the resonance of promise in each flow and line that makes him, in each poetically graceful contraction and extension of muscle and tendon under honey gold skin as he leans across to open the door from the inside. Patrick swears his heart stops beating in the moment that lips like heat close over his own, in the moment that a delicate tongue feathers against the eager press of his own. It’s been weeks since they last did this, since he tasted the tang of cigarettes and gum and Pete. It’s felt like a lifetime and longer, like aching hours have dragged to years and opened something raw and desperate between them as Pete’s hands frame Patrick’s face, as his fingers drag through Patrick’s hair. 

 

This is what he’s waited for, what he swears - like the loser, the sex-starved kid, that he is - he’d wait for again. There’s an ache in his chest, in his stomach, echoing down between his legs in a steady sort of throb. If Pete were to slip his hand lower, if he were to flick open the button of Patrick’s jeans and slide a hand inside, Patrick just isn’t sure he’d have the strength to stop him. Patrick’s sure - he gets it, he _gets_ it - that all he’d do is spread his legs and beg for more. Fortunately for Patrick’s modesty, Pete has slightly more self control than he does, pulls back with a smile as wide and bright as the crescent of moon that sails above them hung high on soft dusk velvet with its smattering of sparkle-crush stars. Patrick knows - he knows with a clench in his gut - that it’s a sky that can only hang over something magical, something important and _significant._ It’s a lucky sort of sky.

 

He directs Pete quietly to the corner where they collect Will - who didn’t listen and absolutely looks like Robert fucking Smith’s lame younger brother - who slumps on the back seat and looks disinterested in a way that Patrick can’t decide is because he’s genuinely pissed off, or because he’s a goth. It doesn’t matter to Pete who ignores him pointedly from the moment he climbs into the car. Pete who doesn’t hesitate to make things seem weird and uncomfortable as he slides a possessive hand from Patrick’s knee to his thigh to his groin, squeezing his cock just too hard to be comfortable, just enough to elicit a pained hiss from Patrick and a sharp side eye from Will. Pete just laughs, a sharp, vicious little noise in the silent car then reaches for the radio, flicking it back and forth until he finds something to his liking.

 

_I saw him standing there by the record machine, I knew he must’ve been about seventeen._

 

Patrick has to admit it feels slightly less awkward with some noisy rock pulsing through the car, even if it makes Will’s lip curl into a sneer like an accusation.

 

The party is in Evanston, some house full of guys Pete knows, guys from college, guys Patrick’s never met. The house is almost a frat house but not quite, these people are way too fucking cool to belong to a fraternity. It’s noise and bustle and some chick in a short, plaid skirt that shows her panties is throwing up into the shrubbery outside. Patrick tries not to stare, Will and Pete don’t. Patrick wonders out loud if they should check if she’s okay, Will looks like he might want to start administering CPR right now, Pete just smirks and herds Patrick inside, trying to cut Will off and lose him in a tangle of turns through rooms, doubling back on himself time and again until Patrick is dizzy but Will sticks to them like glue.

 

A beer is pressed into Patrick’s hand - it’s warm, he _hates_ warm beer, barely tolerates it cold but at least then he can’t taste it as much - and he tells himself he’s having fun. He nods his head along to Minor Threat blasting from the stereo and chugs his drink down fast enough to make his head spin. At least that way he doesn’t really taste it. Pete disappears quickly with a cry of, “Hurley, man, we need to talk,” and it’s Patrick and Will, a couple more warm beers and acres of silence. But silence can only last so long and Will breaks it eventually.

 

“Cool party.” Patrick can’t tell if he’s actually impressed by the kind of people he associates with now, or if he’s just being a sarcastic asshole so he grabs a couple more beers from the table nearby rather than answering. It’s hard to talk over the noise so they lean against the wall and drink in silence. Within a few minutes Patrick’s finishing up, Will’s is barely touched. Fucking killjoy.

 

“He treats you like shit, man,” Will has to shout to be heard over the volume of the stereo and the words kick Patrick like something solid. “What he did in the car? Not fucking cool. You okay with him doing that to you?”

 

Patrick wants to point out Pete has been rougher. Patrick wants to point out he’s liked it. Patrick _wants_ to point out Will’s just jealous because no one’s touched _him_ like that but for the sake of smooth relations he just shrugs and helps himself to another beer. They don’t taste so bad as he gets used to them. Milwaukee's Best, try saying that ten times fast, “You wouldn’t get it, wait until you meet someone.”

 

Will scoffs and Patrick - so help him - he thinks about throwing a punch, there’s that ever-present rage simmering just below the surface. The fury that marks his vision with streaks of red and black and makes his fists curl tight at his sides. Will is a fucking _dick_ sometimes and right now - right in this second - Patrick doesn’t have the time or patience to babysit him. He brought him along, didn’t he? He brought him to a party way cooler than anything he could have hoped to be invited to from the privacy of his bedroom with his dad’s shitty porn tapes for company. Patrick’s a fucking _good_ friend and it would be nice if Will showed some goddamn appreciation once in a while.

 

“Go find someone to hang out with,” Patrick snaps, looking for Joe, looking for Jared or Chris or Adam but spotting the bob of Pete’s mohawk instead. “Get another beer, get your dick sucked, fucking... get _laid._ Just stop fucking following me around like I owe you something, asshole.”

 

Listen, it’s for his own good, okay? Patrick’s a good friend, the goddamn best kind of friend, and that means pushing Will out of his comfort zone and into something more risky. It’s not like he doesn’t care when dark eyes widen in panic and hurt in the split second before he pushes past him, chasing that flash of jet black hair. He finds him talking to someone in the corner, someone in a loose white t-shirt, baggy jeans and Nikes, black Xs inked into the back of his hands, heads bowed close together. The infamous Andrew Hurley unless he’s very much mistaken, well-known on the Chicago punk scene, more famous than Pete and, allegedly, an all-round righteous dude.

 

For a second, just a couple of dizzy moments, Patrick wonders if he should stay away, go and find someone else to talk to for a time. But the way Pete kissed him in the car felt significant, the possessive way he’d grabbed at him has to have meant something, _they_ have to mean something. It’s just Pete, he reminds himself, watching the two of them engrossed in conversation, just Pete talking to another musician just like Patrick, it’s _fine._

 

“Hey,” Patrick tries to look a little more cool than he feels, tries to feel a little less like a slightly sweaty, awkward seventeen year old trapped amongst the glamour of men in their twenties. 

 

“Hi,” Andy smiles, friendly but confused, waiting for an introduction. Patrick’s kind of waiting for one too, twisting an inch of his suspenders between his fingers. 

 

“Just a second, man,” Pete rolls his eyes theatrically at Andy, hissing _“kids,”_ all loaded with meaning he thinks Patrick doesn’t understand. Patrick is propelled by his arm, three steps away, four, five, Pete’s lips at his ear as he hisses a warning. “Don’t fuck this up. Fuck off and find an elsewhere to be, what are you, _six?_ You need me to come hold your dick for you while you take a piss? Fuck off. I’ll catch up with you later.”

 

And that’s that. 

 

There are quiet corners, even at parties. There are stairways and patios, and empty bedrooms where no one’s fucking, passed out or puking. Patrick finds one, a relatively silent spot out on the back porch steps, knees drawn to his chest as he looks up at the sky for stars that hide this close to the city. It makes his head hurt because of course he didn’t wear his glasses, it makes his chest hurt because that’s what happens when he thinks about Pete. He’d quite like to go home, now.

 

“Hey, Baby P,” he jumps at the voice that rings in his ear, at the thump of feet across the porch and the sudden warmth as Pete sits next to him. 

 

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick protests weakly - everything he does around Pete is weak - tears suddenly sharp in his eyes. “What _are_ we, man? Fucking seriously, I just… I have no idea where we are or…”

 

He pretends he doesn’t notice the glance Pete shoots over his shoulder, the look loaded with caution as he makes sure they’re alone before he leans in and slides their mouths together. If it’s a deliberate, calculated battlefield maneuver, designed to bring about silence, then it’s successful as Patrick surrenders once again to the press of a hot, wet tongue into his mouth. Calloused fingertips graze a score under his shirt, feathering against the damp skin of his back as Pete pulls back, no more than a breath that tastes of want hanging between them, “Should we… go find a room?”

 

They don’t touch. Not when they head back into the house, not as they climb the stairs - Patrick a couple of paces behind - not as Pete checks each room in turn until he finds one he seems happy with. They don’t touch and Patrick isn’t sure how he feels about it. He decides he doesn’t care as the door clicks closed behind them and Pete finds his mouth in the darkness, he doesn’t care because it’s spit and lips and need and hands that grab into his hips until it aches. He doesn’t care because Pete is dragging him to the bed, shoving him down to the mattress and landing with him like a promise.

 

There are teeth at his throat, breath that smells of cheap beer and cheaper platitudes, “Fuck, Baby P, can we? I want… I want to so much…”

 

And Patrick wants it too, he nods desperately around a mouth filled with Pete’s taste and tongue, groans a fervent _“yes, oh God, yes,”_ into a neck that’s damp with sweat as he grinds his hips up and Pete presses his down and Patrick is ready, he’s _ready_ for this. Pete already seems to be missing most of his clothes, his shirt discarded somewhere between the door and the bed, his jeans snagged around his knees and his dick hard in Patrick’s hand. There’s no softness tonight, no give or falter, he’s throbbing with blood and want against the damp of Patrick’s palm, hard for _him,_ no one else.

 

The hands at the hem of his shirt aren’t gentle, they snag blunt nails against his skin as it joins Pete’s, a tangle of cotton and punk symbolism puddled dark against a darker carpet. Pete finds the tightness of a nipple and bites down hard, there’s a hiss between teeth in the dark, pain sharp-hot-bright in a way it’s never been before. There’s a nervous sort of feeling fizzing like too much soda in Patrick’s gut, shoved aside like his jeans and boxers as Pete drags them down. Pete leaves trails of red painted down Patrick’s thighs from nails tipped black and chipped and bites another hard mark to his hip, a bruise blooming like the roses that cascade down his arm.

 

Look, don’t judge him for this, but Patrick’s sort of wondering if this is such a great idea. It seemed it, in steamed cars and quiet corners, in Patrick’s room with his mom downstairs as he hushed moans into his hands. Oh, in those places this seemed like the only thing he wanted, to feel Pete inside him, to be _owned_ by him. That Pete seemed different to this Pete. This Pete is biting vicious kisses to his lips, bruising bold, fingers twisted into the collar at his neck until he wants to gag with it. This Pete has a hand wrapped hard around Patrick’s cock, stroking like friction burn but - he has to admit - it still feels every kind of _good._ It still feels like heaven in a roughened grasp so he crushes his doubts like so many beer cans, arches his hips and rolls his head back against the mattress.

 

“Suck me off?” It’s half desperation, half a dare. It’s a _please want me_ all tangled up with _how could you not?_ It’s whispered soft and pleading but resonant with command as he lies there, completely exposed in every way that matters, fingers wound around his cock as he blinks up at Pete. And for a second, just a few beats of his heart sharp and disjointed against his ribcage, he thinks Pete will refuse, sees the flash of irritation in his eyes, the set of his mouth that says _not again_ as his lips flatten into an irritated sort of line like a knife wound. 

 

But Pete nods and ducks his head, doesn’t tease or taunt, just slides the satin heat of his mouth over the come-slick length of Patrick’s cock. There’s blood; blood flooding his tongue from lips and cheek bitten hard, blood flooding his cock and - very determinedly - leaving his brain. There’s no way to think, no thoughts to be found, as he rolls his hips and grinds up into Pete’s mouth. They’ve never been like this before, never been naked and twisted together like so many vines - or maybe it’s thorns like the ones wound across Pete’s skin, Patrick doesn’t want to get poetic right now but it seems a more fitting analogy - limbs and skin and mouths and come and _heat._ Yeah, okay yeah, he’s getting back into it.

 

Patrick’s tense, tightly coiled under Pete on a bed that smells of sweat and musk. A darkened bedroom at a college party - there are less cool places to lose it. A handsome punk with a mouth like sin itself, eyes that glow with promises, skin wound with ink and scars and a face all painted with _pretty_ \- there are worse people to lose it _to._ Is he making observations - half drunk on cheap beer, half lost on cheaper lust - he wonders, or is he convincing himself? He leans up on an elbow, strokes Pete’s cheek all tender touch and waits for the flick of amber eyes to his - why are Pete’s closed? Why isn’t he _looking_ at Patrick? He whispers, soft as a breath, “I- I’m gonna.. Stop…”

 

He’s not going to come, not yet, but he wants something more. At least, he _thinks_ he does. He supposes there’s only one way to find out. Pete is on top of him in a second, hands pressing his hips down, grinding the slick heat of Patrick’s cock against his own, the slow rut of his hips driving shockwaves through Patrick’s groin, sparking the pulsing thrum of his heart because this is real, this is happening and his voice is a hesitant hush that screams like a hurricane through the room, “Do you… I could suck your dick, too?”

 

“That’s not what I want, Baby P,” Pete’s eyes seem to glow in the darkness, his skin a misted shine and his cock hot and heavy against Patrick’s belly. “I want… what you’ve been teasing me with for _months._ You gonna let me fuck you?” Teeth snag his earlobe, lips trail lower before they spark bright, sharp pain against his neck. “You gonna let me have that pretty little ass? You been fucking other boys while you kept me waiting?”

 

_No,_ Patrick thinks. Because - believe it or not - Patrick isn’t stupid. Patrick knows he should come clean, he knows it’s not the worst lie someone’s ever told their cool, older boyfriend (Boyfriend? Fuck buddy? Best friend that can’t really stand him with whom he exchanges blowjobs?) and that this is _absolutely_ his last chance to explain it all and… 

 

“Yeah,” Patrick lies, because it seems to be what Pete wants to hear, seems to spark something bright and confusing in him as he thrusts a little harder against the soft stretch of Patrick’s thigh. 

 

“Yeah?” Nails bite burning crescents into Patrick’s hips, skin breaks like his heart has broken so many times, cresting blood and tiny scraps of white caught under the black of Pete’s fingertips. “You’re such a filthy little…” He trails off like he realises how dumb he sounds, licks something that feels like frustration into the salt-damp of Patrick’s chest. “Get on your knees for me, Baby P, show me what you got.”

 

Patrick has no idea what he’s got but shuffles to his hands and knees anyway and, okay, there are fingers pressing against his hole and that’s all right, that’s familiar. One, dry, working inside of him as Pete massages gently at his lower back, “Just relax, P, relax,” he can’t fucking relax, he’s locked up tight, fingers tangled like white-knuckled agony in a comforter he doesn’t know. 

 

“L-lube,” he manages to choke out. “There’s lube in my… my pocket. Let me…”

 

But Pete is already smoothly rummaging in Patrick’s discarded jeans, sliding out one of the sachets of KY Jelly Patrick grabbed by the handful from the school nurse’s office last time he had a headache. It’s fun to jerk off with it, okay, that’s not weird. And, well, he sort of thought…

 

He can hear the paper-foil tear of the pack, the tick of silence as Pete slicks up and then the fingers are back, two of them - crossed for good luck? - sliding in easy until his hand is tucked up tight to the cleft of Patrick’s ass. Patrick can move again, rocking slow and steady onto the fingers inside of him, dick bobbing between his thighs with each thrust. His eyes fall closed because this is familiar, fucking himself on fingers, open and exposed for Pete as a voice hisses hushed into his ear, “You’re so fucking pretty like this for me, Baby P, so pretty…”

 

“More,” Patrick croaks, when he means less. “Please.”

 

There’s a pause as Pete fishes a second sachet from Patrick’s pocket, as he slicks up his cock while Patrick waits, head dropped, back arched and cock aching. There’s a thought, a poster in the locker room, a flyer in the nurse’s office, a threat spelled out in glowing crimson letters and Patrick speaks softly, “There’s a condom in there too. Could you…”

 

“I’m not wearing a rubber, dude,” the head of Pete’s cock circles the delicate pucker of Patrick’s ass, nerve endings rush with blood and sensation and his prick pounds a beat that matches the desperate throbbing hum of his heart. 

 

“Pete, _please,”_ Patrick never asks him for anything, he never has, he gives and gives and gives and this is the one time - the one fucking time - he’s begged for consideration. Pete presses forward a fraction, not an inch, not close, just enough for the blunt, soft, blood flushed head of his cock to begin to spread Patrick open. Just enough that he feels muscles shift with the promise. Just enough to spark tingling heat through Patrick’s groin. “Please?”

 

“I can get dressed,” Pete points out, sounding bored. Oh, Patrick doesn’t want him to leave, doesn’t want anything but the slide of Pete’s body against his. “How many times have I come in your mouth? You think that’s any different? What do you want me to do, Baby P?”

 

He leans forward a fraction more, another stretch and give of Patrick’s hole. Teeth find the back of Patrick’s neck for just a second, a soft bite that’s more down-to-the-bone _heat_ than anything else then he straightens, whispers again, “Fuck, P, I wish you could see what I can see. You’re gonna look so good full of my cock. You want it? Hmm?”

 

Patrick wants it. Patrick nods and decides it’s not so bad - Pete’s right, there’s been the slick burn of come in the fresh split on his lip, if there’s a risk then he’s already taken it. If there’s a gamble then he’s called out his stake. If he’s going down, he’s dragging Pete with him into the dirt, “Fuck me,” he whispers and, because he’s a dumbfuck and desperate to please he adds, “Hard.”

 

There’s a split second when he thinks Pete might ignore him, when he imagines it being how he hoped, slow and sweet. Pete nudges the head of his cock just inside and there’s pain and stretching that’s not like his fingers, he takes a deep breath and waits for a slow slide, twists his fingers into the sheets to prepare. But Pete’s been given permission, Patrick can’t deny that. _Patrick_ told him to go ahead, _Patrick_ told Pete to fuck him, _Patrick_ asked for it to be hard. Patrick gets exactly what he asked for as Pete slams forward, slicked up with KY and stuttering a groan. 

 

Patrick makes no noise at all to start, jaw slack and eyes wide as he stares down at the comforter and thinks that’s it, he’s not a virgin anymore. He’s not sure how he feels about that but doesn’t have time to dwell on it as Pete pulls out sharp and painful against delicate skin before slamming home once again. This time, Patrick does make a noise, high and sharp at the back of his nose, a noise that burns him as he tries to twist away but Pete’s hands are tight on his hips, Pete thinks he’s enjoying this, he can’t disappoint him. He _can’t._

 

He arches his back to try and relieve the worst of the sensation as Pete finds his rhythm, too quick, too hard, this isn’t what Patrick imagined _at all._ He wants the stupid chick flick fairy tale, he wants the gentle touches and sweet kisses, he doesn’t want Pete’s hand, hot and damp, between his shoulderblades, pushing him down and down and further until his face is pressed to a comforter that smells of sleep and sweat and unwashed skin in a messy room in a college dude’s bedroom. Although he has to acknowledge that at least it gives him a way to muffle his sobs and hiccuping noises. He won’t tell Pete to stop, he _won’t._

 

He rolls his hips a little and turns his head to the side, gulping in air like he’s drowning. Pete’s hips are sharp stabs of agony against skin chafed to tormenting sensitivity. He moans like he’s enjoying it when he can find the breath to do so, and drowns his cries of pain when he can’t. 

 

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” Pete grunts above and behind him. “So tight. So good.”

 

At least he’s okay at this, he assures himself, at least he’s not embarrassing himself even if he feels like he’s being turned inside out. Pete hasn’t touched him but that’s okay, he’s pretty sure he’s barely half hard, doesn’t want Pete to know, doesn’t want to humiliate himself because right now, salt on his lips and stinging his eyes, he’s realising what a stupid fucking kid he actually is. He realises it and he prays that Pete won’t last much longer.

 

When Pete tenses behind him - thank God, oh thank _fuck_ \- Patrick tenses with him, every aching muscle in his back and through the sensitive places locking tight. Pete groans a syllable that could be his name, thick with lust and desire as his cock twitches. He sags a little after a few moments and Patrick can’t help it, scoots forward with an agonised whine as Pete slips out of him. Everything hurts, it hurts so much from his hips to his heart and he collapses, curled tight and shivering. 

 

It was Johnny Rotten that said _love is two minutes and fifty-two seconds of squelching noises._ Right now, Patrick’s never related to anything more in his life.

 

Pete lowers himself slowly, wraps an arm around Patrick’s waist and gusts a content sort of sigh against his neck, “Fuck, that was pretty good. Why haven’t we done that before…”

 

He trails off as he skims his hand lower, as his fingers encounter the soft, dry curve of Patrick’s cock. Not the still half-hard and smeared in come that he’s used to. He falters for a moment, voice dancing with confusion, “Baby P?”

 

Patrick can’t answer because what can he possibly say? He just draws his knees up a little tighter and hisses at the spike of pain between his legs. He’s an idiot. In a heartbeat he’s shoving Pete away, he’s scrambling into his jeans and his shirt as Pete stares at him, eyes wide, from the middle of the bed. He staggers from the room drunk on disappointment, jeans still unzipped, shirt on backwards and Chucks clutched in his hand. He lurches like he’s sleepwalking until he slams into someone solid and warm, someone with eyes filled with hatred, someone that hisses with a sharp tongue that Patrick doesn’t need right now, the leak of Pete’s come slicking his underwear, “Where the _fuck_ did you go? Whoa… Patrick? Are you okay, man?”

 

Will’s arms are tight around him as the first tears fall. Will who smells of Denim aftershave and laundry detergent. Will who doesn’t question him as he leads him downstairs, sobbing apologies, into the street and to the payphone on the corner of the street. Will who holds him close as he feeds in a quarter, dials and waits, “Dad? Hey, it’s me. So… Could you come pick us up from Evanston?”

 

They sit together on the curb as Patrick tugs his shoes on. They sit in silence with Will’s arm around him, pulling him in tight as he shivers out the shock of what just happened. They sit together comfortably until a familiar station wagon rolls around the corner and they climb into the backseat. Mr Beckett frowns at them in the rear view mirror. There’s a lecture - Patrick knew there would be - about lying to their parents and earning trust. There’s reluctant agreement for Patrick to stay over for the night but he doesn’t really listen. Jermaine Stewart is playing on the radio and Patrick fucking _hates_ that song. Dislikes it even more as it mocks him with cheerful melody laced over words like an accusation.

 

_We don’t have to take our clothes off, to have a good time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I hope you're all still with me, I know that got a little dark - but I think we can agree it's been building for a while.
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated and I hope you have a fantastic week!


	7. This is an incredibly romantic moment, and you're ruining it for me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick learns that honesty is ~~usually~~ the best policy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, happy Tuesday, ready to roll back to 1986?
> 
> Once again, a huge thank you to laudanum_cafe for proof-reading for me (she won't let me call it beta-reading but... yeah, it's beta-reading) and this week's title is taken from the movie Pretty in Pink. Worth a watch, definitely.

Patrick is trying his best but it’s not exactly easy.

 

He’s playing hard, eyes focused down on his hands that seem to blur a little over the strings - should have worn his glasses - and there’s a nasty stench of sour, nervous sweat prickling his nostrils. It’s him, he’s been damp with it since he arrived at practice, stoic and silent as he gathered his guitar and waited for the others to ready themselves. Pete keeps _looking_ at him with an expression Patrick doesn’t understand and that he convinces himself is hatred one minute, pity the next and everything else that falls into the confusing in-between of their fucked up charade.

 

Patrick won’t return the glances, just concentrates on the guitar and the mic, the music and the lyrics twisted from poetry that he still can’t decide if Pete wrote for him although he’s doing a good job of convincing himself not to be so fucking ridiculous. He burns with an awareness of Pete’s exact location in relation to his, moves subtly to avoid their bodies brushing as Pete crosses behind him, shifts a little to the right when Pete drifts too close. It’s like a waltz, like the most ridiculous dance as he side steps and shuffles and plays and sings and-

 

“God fucking _dammit,_ Patrick, _again?”_ Joe snaps as Patrick manages to forget the lyrics, hit several wrong notes and trip into Joe as Pete moves, smooth and silent, to brush against his arm.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, righting his mic stand as humiliation burns bright across his cheeks. “I just- I’m sorry. Let’s try it again and-”

 

“Let’s _not,_ okay?” Joe is more furious than Patrick has ever seen him and it hurts him more than he imagined it ever would. Joe is the calm. Joe is the serenity. Joe is the reassuring smiles and hands on shoulders and _it doesn’t matter, man._ Pissing off _Joe_ means he’s beyond redemption, he’s beyond the band. He scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the floor with concentrated effort as Joe and Jared mutter behind him. He’s not going to cry, okay? Not this time, not in this place surrounded by people that _don’t know_ and one that does. He’s not sure which is worse, if he’s honest. He blinks furiously as his eyes sting and burn, fumbles into his back pocket for his glasses and tries desperately not to sniff like the whiney, pathetic fucking _kid_ that he is.

 

“Can we talk?” Pete’s hand sears a brand straight through his shoulder and he twists, jumping away and crashing into the mic stand in an effort to get away, to put distance between them because he’s not ready - not even _close_ to ready - for Pete to touch him after what happened last time. Eyes wide and lungs heaving, he fumbles for the stand, rights it carefully under the burning scrutiny of every eye in the room. “Are- are you okay?”

 

“Fine,” he replies with brightness so false he’s sure everyone must hear the lie, that they can hear it and they know he’s hiding something. “I’m absolutely _fine._ Look, I’m gonna bounce, I’ve gotta go… do... some stuff and-”

 

“I’ll give you a ride?” Pete offers with such open-hearted sincerity it almost drowns the sensation of a hand shoved between Patrick’s shoulderblades, of the rough thrust and slam of bodies and _”I’m not wearing a rubber,”_ dude hissed into the dark. Patrick glares at something and nothing somewhere between Pete and the door, anger and fury and simmering _hurt_ knotting him tight.

 

“No,” he grits between teeth clenched hard as diamonds, fists bunched just as hard at his sides as the nail bite into the soft skin of his palms. “I can walk.”

 

Pete doesn’t talk, which Patrick takes as a win because talking is Pete’s battle cry. He lives to fill a room - a space, any space - with pointless words and debated syllables, to command the attention of everyone he can gather with pretty platitudes and jarring jokes. He uses words to whisper sweetness into the ears of all of the Not Patricks that Patrick isn’t sure he’s jealous of any more. Did he hurt them too? Was he too fast, too rough - he tries to forget to remind himself who’s idea _that_ was - did he _respect_ them? Does he murmur sweet things to them in dark places, touch them with gentle hands because they’re worth more - more to him, at least - so much more than Patrick could ever hope to be. 

 

He slams his guitar into the case, clasps clicked, hefted up onto his shoulder and out of the door without a goodbye. Pete follows. Because _of course_ Pete follows, never one to be denied, never one to be ignored but Patrick sets his jaw, shoves his hands into his pockets and walks. Pete falls into step beside him, the Edsel forgotten against the curb as their feet fall into rhythm. Patrick falters half a step just to break it, just so that their footsteps will jar as dissonantly as they do themselves. Pete corrects his own step in time. Patrick itches to tell him to fuck off, to shove him in front of the next car that rolls by or swing a punch at that honey-gold jaw and leave behind something dark and ugly in the shape of his knuckles. But he won’t show weakness.

 

“We need to talk,” Pete fires from the corner of his mouth and Patrick scowls from the edge of his vision. This is another battle in their war against one another and this time, Patrick’s sure, this time he’ll win because _this time_ he’s lined up his defences just right, his attack is prepared just so. He can’t lose.

 

“What do we need to talk about, _Pete?”_ He spits the name, tastes it sour on his tongue because it’s the first time he’s said it out loud since a dark room that smelled of lust and sweat. 

 

“You know _exactly_ what, Baby P, I-”

 

“No,” Patrick roars with enough fire and furnace to attract the attention of a couple of kids on the other side of the street. Pete’s collar is somehow caught in his fists and he’s raging and burning, fingers digging tight and face pushed close to amber eyes as he wonders what the fuck to do next. “You _don’t_ call me that, you understand? You don’t get to talk to me like you fucking care. I’m just- I’m just some dude you know, that’s it. You got that?”

 

They’re frozen, caught in a moment that feels definitive though Patrick had no idea why. He wants to hurt Pete, wants to make him feel the way Patrick has felt for the past week, wants him broken and uncertain and stilled with aching shock. He wants _Pete_ to be the one lying awake in the dark, lonely hours considering “them” with regret that causes physical pain. He wants _Pete_ to be the one crying hot tears in the solitude of his room because an illusion, a fantasy that he’s nurtured for months, has been broken and shattered and ground to dust under his heel. 

 

He wants _Pete_ to make it all okay but he’s not sure how.

 

“Come back and get in the car,” Pete says, gently untangling Patrick’s fingers from his shirt, wisely refraining from adding _Baby_ fucking _P._ He strokes Patrick’s cheek and his instincts battle between lashing out and leaning in, hovering somewhere in between with a half shove and a half sob as he snarls his embarrassed fury down at the sidewalk.

 

“Go fuck yourself,” he whispers at his Converse. “We’re _nothing,_ you know that? You don’t get to keep doing what you do to me, I fucking quit. I quit the band and I fucking quit _you._ You’re not worth it.”

 

“P, please,” there’s something in Pete’s voice that makes him _want_ to look up, some fragile, broken quality that sets his stomach turning and his heart thud-thumping against his ribs like it’ll crash straight through. He’s so weak, too weak, he keeps staring at the ground because it’s easier than meeting eyes that glow like they care when he doesn’t - Patrick _knows_ he doesn’t - when all he cares about is himself. “You can get in the car or I can follow you home, either way…”

 

Why does he always leave him stripped of choices? Why does he deliver them like there’s an option when Patrick knows - he knows it with an ache that makes him shiver - that there absolutely isn’t? Why does he behave like he wants Patrick to decide, to steer the ship, when the course was written in the fucking stars by some cosmic asshole millennia ago? And why, oh fuck _why,_ does he make Patrick feel so goddamn melodramatic all of the time? He huffs on an irritated heel, pivoting back towards Pete’s shitty car to slump in the passenger seat and take in the smell of cigarettes, weed and musk caught in the upholstery. 

 

Pete slides into the driver’s seat glowing with lithe grace, no fumbling or stumbling just smooth, measured movements that beat with precision. There’s only the slightest pause as he leans across for his cigarettes, the hitch in grasping fingers as he glances as Patrick and mutters, “Sorry. Asthma, right? I forgot.”

 

Of course he forgot. Why would he remember? He slips the car into drive and joins the flow of late evening traffic. They wind through town in silence, and Patrick resolves that he won’t break it this time, he won’t be the first to lower his walls as Pete takes turn after turn, rolling along until they find themselves in the parking lot outside of Denny’s, silence ringing in their ears and painting their mouths in a way that seems uglier than the hard words Patrick wants to throw like so many rocks.

 

Patrick folds his arms like armour, like a defence he can erect and assemble to protect himself from whatever it is that Pete intends to throw at him, whatever the barbed accusation or growled menace, Patrick is ready for it. Patrick can slam it right back into his face accompanied by a fist if he needs to. Just let that motherfucker _try_ and accuse him of something, let him cook up whatever lies he wants and-

 

“I’m sorry about the party,” Pete mutters as he looks at Patrick. Actually looks _at_ him, not that weird, vacant half-stare he seems to use so much but a genuine _look,_ loaded with consideration that Patrick isn’t sure is real or as fake as everything that’s come before. “I shouldn’t- I didn’t realise.”

 

“Didn’t realise _what?”_ Patrick hisses, the rage and humiliation still bubbling just below the surface, the nagging scream in his ear that it was _all Pete’s fault._ There’s another voice, quieter but just as insistent, that rings with the words _“fuck me hard,”_ and the ache he can recall in his back and between his legs when he got exactly what he asked for.

 

“Was I your first?” Pete asks quietly. He still doesn’t make the accusations that surely should have come by now. He still doesn’t spit _you lied to me_ or _you got what you deserved._ He looks sad, quiet, drawn in on himself in a way that starts to unravel the tight knot of hate in Patrick’s gut, in a way that starts to make _him_ take pity on _Pete._ That’s not fair, it’s not right, _Patrick’s_ the wronged party here, _he’s_ the one deserving of apologies and pleas for forgiveness. _Him._ Not Pete. Not the man with the sad eyes and soft voice muttering quietly from the far corner of the car seat. “P? Was I?”

 

“Yeah,” it’s one word, barely a syllable, just a tiny scrape of noise in the silence that hangs between them thick and heavy and _solid._ Just a tap of a knuckle that brings down a dam as the tears well and he tries - he fucking _tries,_ okay - to hold them back but it’s useless. They spill, hot, wet and messy over his cheeks. They fog his glasses and burn his throat raw as he hiccups into clenched fists pressed tight to his lips. He cries although he doesn’t know why - it’s not like his virginity _meant_ anything to him, after all. He thinks he’s crying because, apparently, it didn’t mean anything to Pete either and somehow, some twisted _how,_ that matters more.

 

“Fuck,” Pete hisses out a breath he might have been holding for hours - maybe days - shoulders sagging limp against the pintucked leather behind him, hands with elegant fingers covering his face like he’s hiding from something. “I swear I didn’t know. I thought… You told me you’d done it before.”

 

Patrick wants to point out, around snot and tears and breath that won’t do as he wants it to, that it must take a special variety of asshole not to work out he was lying. Wilful ignorance? It doesn’t seem like it as Pete peeks between fingers from eyes dulled to dark hazel and not their usual vibrant caramel. It almost seems like remorse. It almost tastes like an apology but he won’t say the words, just wants Patrick to guess _again._

 

“I lied,” Patrick manages to breathe around tears, manages to calm himself a little by pinching bright marks into his wrists. Pete snarls something low in his throat and grabs his fingers, pulling them flat to his thighs with irritation. “I lied because I thought you’d think I was just some dumb fucking kid.”

 

“A dumb fucking kid?” Pete repeats in a voice that sounds close to cracking though Patrick isn’t sure why. “A _dumb fucking kid_ isn’t the guy that hasn’t taken a fucking dick in the ass at seventeen. A _dumb fucking kid_ is the idiot that doesn’t tell the owner of the fucking dick about to be put in his ass that he’s never fucking _done_ that shit before, you _dumb fucking kid.”_

 

Patrick stares at his hands in miserable silence. 

 

“I could’ve hurt you,” Pete continues with that same break in his voice, a voice that trips between fury and concern as he snaps suddenly-wide eyes to Patrick. “Maybe I- fuck, _did_ I hurt you? Did it hurt?” Patrick nods slowly and agony wells in Pete’s voice, “Oh fuck, I- I didn’t mean to _hurt_ you. Are you okay?”

 

_Is_ he okay? It doesn’t physically hurt anymore, if that’s what Pete means, but there’s still a hollow ache in his chest, a horrible sort of stillness that echoes through him whenever he thinks about it. About the slap of skin against skin and the frantic prayers that it would be over soon, just a few more moments of the crash of hips that bloomed bruises on pale skin that are only just starting to fade from vivid purples and greens to dull browns and yellows. Is he okay? He’s not sure he is, but he’s not sure that’s Pete fault. No, it’s the fault of a _dumb fucking kid_ that went too hard, too fast and discovered the consequences. 

 

Actually, now he’s thinking about it, one part absolutely wasn’t his fault. One memory that’s replayed over and over in his mind as the point he should’ve walked away, the point he should have realised that Pete holds no respect for him in any of the ways that matter so he hisses it like a curse.

 

“Why didn’t you use a fucking condom?” He snaps, slamming his fist against the seat and releasing a cloud of dust into the air. How much of that dust is composed of him? How much of it is stolen and stored from moments in this seat, black hair between his fingers and lips like loaded promises. “I asked - no, I goddamn _begged._ Don’t you care, Pete? Don’t you give a fuck about anyone but yourself?”

 

That strikes like a blow, Pete reels back into his seat as though he needs to escape, as though he can sink through stained upholstery and melt away from the weight of the accusation that slams into him. He’s painted crimson with embarrassment or shame or anger, Patrick’s isn’t sure, just knows he _needs_ to see that flush of emotion bright against tan skin, _needs_ to know this has had an effect on the asshole he _still_ thinks he’s in love with. Pete’s mouth moves in silent sentences that don’t form actual words, like he’s choking on apologies he doesn’t want to make but if he’s embarrassed he has to or doesn’t think he ought to, Patrick’s just not sure.

 

He leans closer, Pete backed to the very ropes, braced over the parking brake as he brings a sharp fingertip into the centre of Pete’s chest, “I asked you to wear a fucking condom and you refused. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Pete’s glows with shame as he lowers his head into his hands. “I told you we didn’t _have_ to, you chose-”

 

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Patrick snaps, reaching for the door handle. It’s miles from home but it’s not raining and the walk won’t be so bad. “I’m better than you. I- I can _do_ better than you.”

 

“Don’t go,” Pete pleads in a small voice, hand snagged with hesitation in the back of Patrick’s pants. He’s back in VOID; warm fingers, callous-rough, caught against soft pale skin, eyes that say _I won’t force you_ but hands that beg to differ. Pete blinks up at him, sadness caught around his edges and softening them, making him warmer and smaller as Patrick sinks back into the seat and, defeated, pulls the door closed once more. “I’m sorry, okay. I won’t- If you want to use them next time, that’s fine.”

 

_Next time?_ Patrick snorts, hard and ugly, at the back of his throat. It’s a noise he hopes encapsulates exactly how fucking ridiculous this whole _thing,_ this tangled, ugly _mess_ between them actually is. It’s a noise dragged from the pain of feeling completely worthless in Pete’s arms, caught in the pain of a hurried glance over a tattooed shoulder to make sure no one was looking. Hidden in plain sight, the friend he can sling an arm around and tease with kisses like they’re jokes while everyone laughs. The teenager that blushes scarlet at jokes about blowjobs because he knows they’re true but no one else does. The _behind closed doors,_ the _don’t tell,_ the _it’s our little secret._

 

“Kiss me.” Patrick instructs abruptly as Pete’s eyes widen but don’t slide from side to side for once. The parking lots isn’t crowded but it’s a start - _anyone_ could see them, a thought that’s reflected back in Pete’s eyes. “You want a fucking next time? Then _kiss me.”_

 

Pete stares at him, bright and golden with parted lips and clenched fists. Pete _stares_ but he doesn’t _move,_ doesn’t make the slightest slide towards Patrick. Patrick sneers, he shakes his head because _this_ is what Pete is, a fucking _coward,_ so caught up in his own ridiculous self-image that he won’t take a risk, won’t take a step from the path. He’s a fucking asshole and respect is bleeding from Patrick in a steady flow as he, once again, turns to grab the door handle.

 

It’s as he glances away that he feels the rush of air shifting between them. He feels but doesn’t see Pete move, poised and graceful, a hand sinking into Patrick’s hair, another sliding to grasp his jaw. Because he’s half turned, he doesn’t catch much of the desperation in Pete’s face, etched into his features like it’s been carved there, no, he just catches a fleeting glimpse from eyes that spring wide as lips close over his. That’s when his eyes slip closed. That’s when a gasp as soft as a breath but as ringing as a chorus squeezes from his throat because this - _this_ \- is different. This isn’t a kiss like any they’ve shared before. This kiss doesn’t taste of secrecy, it’s flavoured with tender need, this kiss is deep and decadent and comprised of soft lips and a softer tongue that teases against his own. 

 

Pete didn’t look anywhere but at him, that much Patrick is sure of, that’s what sings through him as he leans into the touch and kisses back with fevered need. _Anyone could see,_ that’s what he reminds himself as he kisses Pete deeply, as they hum on shared oxygen and grasp greedily at one another in the front seat of a recognisable car in front of the kind of restaurant other kids hang out in. They could be _seen_ and then people will know, they’ll know and they’ll mutter amongst themselves _that’s Patrick, you know Patrick, the guy that’s dating Pete Wentz._

 

Recognition, that’s all he’s craved, all he’s wanted since this all began, to be the hand caught with Pete’s, the one with a tattooed arm slung around his shoulders in possession, not friendship. To be the someone special, not the something secret. So, when the kiss breaks, when they pull apart giddy and breathless and working out how to use their own lungs, he shines with a special kind of glow.

 

“We’re a thing?” He asks, hopeful and sparkling. 

 

“We’re a thing,” Pete agrees, squeezing his hand against the seat. Their fingers look good tangled together, Patrick decides, the contrast pretty as a picture. “But, Baby P, we keep it between us, okay?”

 

Objections fire through Patrick’s brain, indignant snarls of fury and rage as he struggles to snatch his hand back. Again? Pete’s seriously going to do this again? He grips _tight,_ pushing Patrick’s fist down into the upholstery as he continues all soothing and soft, “For the _band,_ okay? Not because I’m, like, ashamed of you or something. How seriously do you think labels are gonna take us if they find out the bassist is fucking the singer?”

 

That… Actually sort of makes sense, Patrick has to admit. It’s cheesy, the idea of an in-band relationship. Yeah, okay, he can sort of see where Pete’s coming from with this as he nods slow and unsure. Pete _wants_ them to be together - he said so, didn’t he? - he wants them to be a couple it just needs to stay quiet for a while. He can deal with that, it’s just business sense, just boxing clever. 

 

“Pete?” He whispers, alarmed at how rough and wanting he sounds, his voice a husky rasp at the back of his throat. “I need… After last time? I need us to…”

 

And Pete nods with a smile, he _knows,_ he _understands._ How can he be anything but genuine when he always gets exactly what Patrick is trying to say, always knows how to articulate it even when Patrick doesn’t? So, he reclines back into the passenger seat and watches the way muscles ripple under smooth skin as Pete slips the car into drive and, in the sparkling light of a hazy, late summer dusk, he turns the car out onto the freeway and drives them someplace quiet. Pete knows lots of quiet places, lots of dark turns to hide down with Patrick - and the Not Patricks that came before but he’s not thinking about them - and tonight is no exception.

 

Tonight is somewhere quiet and dark, somewhere away from prying eyes as they stretch out on the back seat together in a sweaty tangle of limbs. It’s stripped bare skin that glows in the darkness, porcelain pale traced by fingers cast in gold. Patrick burns from the inside as Pete strokes and licks and kisses him into an inferno, but won’t let Patrick touch him in return. Lips flutter and bite and suck at Patrick’s neck as gentle hands roam his chest, as fingertips find his nipples in an exquisite litany of feathered touches and gentle pinches. Patrick’s cock is hot and heavy between them, grinding weakly against Pete’s as he gasps pleas and curses into the damp curve of Pete’s throat.

 

“Please, Pete,” he whispers, laced with desire and wants he can’t really articulate. “I want you to…”

 

“You said that last time,” Pete replies with the kind of heavy sadness that Patrick doesn’t want to hear. “You said-”

 

“I’m ready,” Patrick gasps as a warm hand, rough and grasping, circles his cock in a loose grasp that isn’t enough, isn’t close to enough. “I’m so ready, fuck.”

 

“You thought that, too,” Pete murmurs, hot breath sticky against Patrick’s ear. “Not yet and not here. Somewhere special, somewhere not now, somewhere just us, okay? But… I can still make you feel good, you want that?”

 

Oh, how Patrick _wants._ He nods acquiescence into the golden line of Pete’s neck, rolls his hips against the maddeningly light grasp enclosing his cock. He wants to fuck himself full of Pete’s fingers whilst a hot, talented mouth works his prick in time. He wants the - gentle - press of Pete’s dick inside of him, stroking him open and making him moan. He wants to fuck Pete until he can’t remember his name, until he can just mumble and moan a litany of _Patrick._

 

“Look,” he whispers, eyes on Patrick’s until he glances down at the press of their cocks together between them, the dark curve of Pete’s next to the pink flush of Patrick’s, the slick shine gathering at the tender tip of his prick. “How do you want this? You want me to keep doing this?” He squeezes Patrick’s shaft, circles the head with the pad of his thumb in a way that has Patrick groaning adulation, “Or maybe I could suck you off? Or…”

 

He slides onto his back, encourages Patrick on top of him and guides the stiff column of Patrick’s cock between the honeyed gold of his thighs, closing them snug and safe and _tight._ Patrick gets it, the curve of his cock pressed between Pete’s legs, tucked up against the heat of his ass as he starts to thrust. Heat. Sweet, damp heat and burning-bright friction. Pete’s cock rubs against the softness of his stomach, his teeth nip blazing heat into Patrick’s throat and he murmurs, lips brushing Patrick’s ear, the sweetest filth, the declarations of how good Patrick feels, how much he’s missed him, how much he wants his cock. 

 

Patrick whispers it back and more. He strokes hair that’s slicked with sweat back from Pete’s brow, peppers his jaw, cheeks, forehead - anywhere he can reach - with soft, tender little kisses. He brands the need and the want of the past few months into the ridge of Pete’s collarbone like it aches, biting his mark into the sweeping loop of inked thorns. Something bright is coiling low in his gut, the warm, liquid rush of relief held back by a knot he can feel loosening inch by inch with each flick of his hips. With each grind of the swollen length of Pete’s prick against fuck-flushed skin he aches - oh, God, it’s fucking embarrassing how badly he aches - with the need to have _more._

 

“I want you,” he pleads with a desperation he’s never felt before.

 

“You got me,” Pete reassures him in a groan that sounds like he’s close. When the tip of his finger gently circles the sensitive rim of Patrick’s hole, he’s right there with him, he’s burning with _oh fuck, yes_ as he arches his back and thrusts a little harder against the tawny stretch of Pete’s thighs. 

 

“Pete,” he whines. “Fuck, I think I’m gonna…”

 

Patrick comes as Pete slides a finger inside of him - just one, not far, not enough to hit that magical thrum inside of him that sparks his skin with fire and singes his blood - presses it in quick and smooth and Patrick explodes. The world around them dims and recedes, the noise of breathing and skin crashing to a stuttering silence that rings in his ears like frozen waves. The knot inside gives, the fibres fraying and snapping as the heat in his gut slides lower, rolls through the rock of his hips to streak, hot and sticky, over him, over Pete, over the cracked leather. It paints them in sin and desire, marks them together and gives them another secret to share as Pete joins him with a guttural groan. The slippery shine of his come paints patterns on their skin, catches like crystals in body hair and stains a ridiculous tattoo etched between toffee-coloured hips.

 

Patrick whines as he rides out the final tremors, a noise high and sweet and buried in the skin of Pete’s shoulder. He grips Pete tightly, presses in close as he murmurs into the soft shell of his ear, “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too,” Pete doesn’t hesitate, scoring patterns and pictures into the smooth satin of Patrick’s back, damp and heated. 

 

He wants more reassurance, wants to grab Pete by the shoulders and demand that he repeat it again and again until Patrick believes him. But instead he accepts the soft kiss pressed to his lips, struggles up against the backrest and tries his best to ignore the swirl of unease that settles, low and cold, in the centre of his chest.

 

*

 

Their demo sucks. 

 

Patrick’s not just sulking as he listens to it with a cold discontent in his stomach, the crackle of it all wrong, his voice not quite right, everything about it rushed and unprofessional and… the only word he can think of is _unsatisfactory_ which makes him sound like a middle school English teacher. But he tells himself that’s okay. First recordings are like that and somehow, with cash they’ve begged, borrowed and earned from shitty jobs, they’ve scraped together enough for actual studio time. God only knows how it’s going to work, they know no one in Wisconsin and there’s no money for hotels or even a shitty motel room. It’s going to be the floor of the van amongst guitars and leads, Pete’s elbows in his ribs and Joe’s feet in his face. And a drummer that doesn’t really want to be there.

 

But something about it seems exciting. The band has gone from the thing he didn’t care about to all he thinks he wants, next to Pete of course, something exciting forming with lyrics that flow pretty and music he thinks he might be starting to believe in. But now, in the van outside of the ratty little studio that looks more like a crack den, Patrick feels elated, he feels giddy, he squeezes Pete’s hand unseen against the seat and soars with the tingle of a reassuring press back of fingers against his palm.

 

“I told you, didn’t I?” Pete asks quietly, smug grin, tooth-bright. He told them. He told _Patrick,_ huddled in the backseat of a shitty car, that he would give him the world. He promised and Patrick thought it was bullshit and yet… and yet here they are, about to cut their tracks in a real studio, with _real_ equipment and engineers that know what they’re doing. This feels like the start of their personal yellow brick road, like the world might just be spreading out before them.

 

The excitement lasts for approximately four hours.

 

Four hours is how long it takes them to work out that Jared hasn’t followed. Four hours is the length of time to realise that they’re 150 miles from home with a van full of instruments, hearts full of songs but no drummer. Four hours is the stretch of phone calls from a payphone that Patrick can hear shifting from jovial to pleading to angry to defeated. Four hours until Pete turns back with a helpless sort of shrug and admits, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

 

Patrick thinks he might cry but that’s not what punks do so instead he kicks something, swinging the toe of his Doc Marten straight at the nearest wall. It still hurts bad enough that he thinks he might have broken a couple of bones but he’s not going to admit that as he slams his knuckles into the brick, as blood blooms on pale skin like roses. Because it’s not fair, it’s not fucking _fair,_ he’s sunk everything into this; his money, his time, his _soul_ and it’s being pissed over by some asshole with a set of drumsticks and no sense of loyalty. 

 

“I could stand in,” he begs but Pete shakes his head, Pete’s losing faith and if he loses faith then it’s over. “Please, let me… We can worry about getting a real drummer later, I-”

 

“I said _no,”_ Pete snarls, already reaching for his leather jacket, already thinking about going home. They’re four hours into a nine day stint and he’s going to go home. Patrick was right not to give a shit, he should’ve carried on not giving a shit rather than letting Pete and Joe fill his head with magic. 

 

“I have a suggestion,” comes a voice from the mix desk, hesitant, soft. Patrick could leap on him because if there’s one thing they need right now it’s halfway bright ideas. “You guys ever heard of a guy named Andy Hurley?”

 

Have they heard of Andrew too-good-for-Fall-Out-Boy Hurley? Have they spent the past four months chasing anyone else to please just pick up the goddamn sticks that seem to be cursed?

 

The tears are back, burning hot behind his eyes because Hurley won’t say yes, he’s resisted every offer so far but still, Pete feeds another quarter into the payphone, the number of a studio back in Chicago scrawled on the back of his hand in marker. Patrick hovers, hopeful, treading on Pete’s heels in all of the most annoying ways. He wriggles in close, squeezing into the booth next to Pete, breath hot on a tanned neck as he brings his ear close enough to the handset that he can catch Andy’s tone but not his words. But somehow, this time it works. Somehow, by some miracle, this time the planets align and Pete is saying things like _“seriously?”_ and _“dude, that’s fucking radical,”_ and _“yeah, 1254 East Washington Avenue,”_ and he’s smiling fit to burst. 

 

There’s a moment when Patrick thinks he might punch him as he comes close to fucking it up by cheerfully adding, “Oh, and bring a sleeping bag, we’re sleeping in our van.” And yet somehow he doesn’t, somehow Andy still sounds upbeat as their conversation draws to a close and Patrick has to bite his lip to keep from blurting out something ridiculous.

 

“He’s coming?” Patrick asks as Pete hangs up with a smile that stretches his cheeks. 

 

“He’s coming,” he confirms, gathering Patrick into a hug that could be friendly but isn’t. “Says he’ll be here in a couple hours. He might even know someone with a floor we can crash on. Mm, but it’s gonna be fucking hell not touching you for over a week…”

 

A second is lost to a stolen kiss, a brush of lips and tongues and sweet spit.

 

“Why?” Patrick asks, confusion burning him bright as they fumble apart - they’ve asked him before, they’ve asked him a dozen times and more and the answer has always been no, never direct, never a reason but always negative. “Why now?”

 

“Because we’re fucking Fall Out Boy,” Pete grins. “We’re fucking _Fall Out Boy._ And we’re gonna take over the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I finally dragged Andy into this! There may be some canon divergence coming up (you know, beyond the fact that it's 1986...) but I'll try and keep it largely on track.
> 
> And hey, if you had the time, a little comment or the kudos button is always greatly appreciated so please, feel free!
> 
> Thank you once again for reading and I hope the rest of your week is wonderful.


	8. When you grow up, your heart dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick begins to understand the art of communication...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again, another Tuesday, another step back to 1986.
> 
> Thank you once again to laudanum_cafe for helping out with this. The chapter title comes from The Breakfast Club and seriously, if you haven't watched it yet, please do. It hasn't aged badly at all.

Patrick stares at the ceiling of his bedroom, watches the way his lightshade twists slowly in the breeze from the open window to cast shadows that flicker and dance against the walls where his Cubs pennants flutter lazily. His turntable fills the room with the low sound of Space Oddity lending an ethereal serenity to the scene, dimmer switch low. Patrick was one when the song was first released, barely walking, he knows he has no right to claim it resonates with him and yet… Major Tom, drifting endlessly and lost for an eternity. It rings with meaning for Patrick that he can’t articulate so he doesn’t try, just lies back and lets it wash over him.

 

Pete is curled into his side, head on his shoulder and arm slung over his stomach. He hasn’t moved in so long beyond the low rise and fall of gentle breath that Patrick thinks he might have fallen asleep. That’s okay, he can deal with sleeping Pete, he stays in one place and he doesn’t say stupid things. They’ve been back from the studio for almost two weeks but this is the first time they’ve stolen alone together. There are downsides to their growing popularity, Patrick is discovering, downsides that include every night taken with a show or a practice instead of losing themselves in quiet moments. Pete is so rarely quiet, so infrequently still, this feels special.

 

“This is such a sad song,” Pete mumbles from somewhere close to Patrick’s armpit. He nods, because it is, fingers stroking soft through the trashed mess of Pete’s hair, curling slightly in the damp heat of their bodies.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, he doesn’t want to break the spell with too many pointless words. “It is.”

 

There are positive sides, he’s discovered, to no one knowing about their relationship. His mom doesn’t question Pete being in Patrick’s room with the door closed until the early hours of the morning. She doesn’t raise an eyebrow if Pete crashes there in the way she would about a girl because it just doesn’t occur to her that anything might happen behind the locked door. They’re just two guys, working on music. They’re safe.

 

Pete sighs quietly against Patrick’s chest, fingertips finding the exposed skin revealed by Patrick’s ridden-up shirt. There are thoughts and words and unspoken things hanging thick between them, palpable and hot and cloying. There are things Patrick wants, things he needs, things he should ask for and yet whenever he’s tried the words have died on their way from his throat to tumble over a tongue thickened with insecurity. But the room is dim, the breeze is refreshingly cool and Bowie’s voice is low and soothing and lends him confidence as he whispers like it matters.

 

“I’m ready, Pete,” he murmurs into hair that smells of shampoo and warm skin. “Seriously, I’m ready.”

 

“You want to fool around?” Pete asks, like he wasn’t listening, hand making a casual slide for Patrick’s zipper. That isn’t what Patrick wants, it isn’t what he asked for and he knows Pete knows it. He doesn’t like this ridiculous, childish stolen kisses and pressed-close hugs. He wants it all, wants the sweat and skin and possession of physicality, wants the press of hard bodies and soft tongues, the feel of a hard cock sliding inside soft warmth and moans and sighs that taste of need. He wants the grand moment he didn’t get the last time – the _first_ time in more ways than one – he wants to own it and take it and enjoy it.

 

“No, I want more,” he catches hold of Pete’s wrist with determination, eyes fixed on honey-sweet hazel as he strokes the smoothness of Pete’s cheek.

 

“I don’t know,” Pete’s eyes slide to the side, as he plucks at Patrick’s comforter as though he can distract them both with elegant fingers against soft cotton. “I don’t know if I can – “

 

“So, let me,” Patrick interrupts softly, fingers finding the stretch of Pete’s zipper, the metallic snag of teeth _click-clicking_ their way down. Pete’s eyes narrow in confusion, questions framed silently on plush lips as Patrick shushes him with a soft kiss. “Seriously, let me fuck you.”

 

Pete stutters stammers hot breath against Patrick’s cheek for a moment, eyes wide like he’s never thought about it before. He smiles, a wide, pretty sort of a smile, the kind that’s all teeth and bright gaze as he strokes creeping fingertips along the stretch of Patrick’s side. Patrick stays silent and unassuming, traces each line of Pete’s face as he waits with a faked patience he doesn’t really feel for some kind of response. He won’t assume anything, won’t cajole or force, he’ll just wait, radiating falsified quiet calm into a pocket of air between them that hums with expectation.

 

Pete’s answer is delivered with a short nod, with a short burst of moment right before the closes the distance between their mouths, a breath or two of heated, shared oxygen and then lips close to lips with tasting tongues and the click of teeth as they find their rhythm. Patrick sinks fingers into Pete’s hair, hauls him close and sweet as they taste and explore, as hands fumble for zippers until fingers can close around cocks that ache with blood and heat. It’s perfect, wonderful, ecstatic sensation and rolling hips as they grind into grasping fists and whisper desperate prayers into necks damp with sweat.

 

Pete yanks off his shirt, tosses it somewhere over Patrick’s shoulder that doesn’t matter, all that matters is that the heat of Patrick’s tongue can trace the swirling lines of ink that decorate Pete’s chest. It means he can sink his teeth into the solid muscle of Pete’s shoulder, feel him tense and arch into the touch like he needs it as much as Patrick, like this is the link between what they were, what they are and what they could yet be. It’s exquisite, it’s heat wrapped in lips and touch, burning need wound with aching want.

 

There’s a tender warmth to Pete’s touch as he lifts off Patrick’s shirt, as he peppers soft kisses along the length of his collar bone, bites across ribs and the softness of his stomach, tongue a suggestion of a touch against the delicate places only Pete knows. He kneels between Patrick’s legs, sheened with sweat and bright with need and a soft crease of a frown on his brow as he tugs down Patrick’s jeans, his boxers. Hands skim, warm and soft and golden against the soft cream of Patrick’s thighs, thumbs tracing the line of his groin until they meet, just above the base of his cock. He’s flushed pink and damp with sweat, struggles to get himself upright so he can yank away Pete’s jeans and drop them to the floor with his own, a twisted mess of shredded denim that smells of dirt and sweat.

 

“Fuck,” Pete whispers, both of them bare in the low light. “Have I told you how fucking gorgeous you are lately?”

 

“It might’ve come up in conversation once or twice,” Patrick grins, all cocky charm and bright smile, shuffling his hips under Pete’s until he can thrust up against him slowly, the pink length of his prick a bright contrast against the blood-dark column of Pete’s. “Fuck… we look good together, right?”

 

“Amazing,” Pete agrees, leaning forward and catching both shafts in one hand, a slow stroke or two that’s sweet, shuddering friction that aches down into the core of Patrick’s being. “Let me suck you first? Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

 

“Only if you’ll let me suck your cock, too,” Patrick groans, fucking his hips up into Pete’s fist. “Yeah, same time, come on, let’s try that.”

 

Pete laughs, a dark and dirty noise that curls around Patrick like the grey-blue of cigarette smoke in a club. He squeezes the swell of their cocks caught firm in his grasp then moves with the kind of grace Patrick can only dream of possessing, onto his back with his legs spread, cock hard and leaking in his hand as he quirks an eyebrow in invitation. Patrick is too much eager fumbling as he shuffles and rolls, wriggles and squirms until he’s straddling Pete’s face, lips brushing the heated, blood-swollen head of his cock. His tongue strokes a soft tease over the tip, salt-bitter sharp on his tongue as Pete hisses a curse from somewhere between his thighs. He pauses, just for a moment, feels the warm damp of Pete’s breath against him in sharp contrast to the bite of nails at his hips and then, with slow deliberation, he slides his mouth down over the pillar of Pete’s prick.

 

“Motherfucker,” Pete hisses, hand snagging tight into Patrick’s hair as he starts to suck, starts to swirl his tongue against the sensitive places he knows as well as he knows his own body. He gathers Pete’s moans like personal wealth stored just for him, like he can hoard him and store him somewhere safe and secret. “You- you’ve got no fucking idea, P, none…”

 

Patrick doesn’t know what that’s supposed to _mean,_ doesn’t really care as long as Pete starts sucking the hot ache of his cock. But he doesn’t, moaning pleas and declarations into the skin of Patrick’s thigh, biting kisses like bruises everywhere but where he _needs_ until he pulls off with a growl and a mutter, “Thought you said – “

 

Objections die in groans as Pete takes him in, smooth and fast, tight, slick heat and a clever tongue that works against him like perfect touch. He sucks Pete back down, head bobbing and hips working with Pete’s, jarring and dissonant to start until they find one another’s rhythm, until they adjust to one another with muffled groans that vibrate against sensitive skin and call forth more moans in a cycle of spiritual perfection. It’s hard to focus on everything, on remembering to suck when there’s a warm mouth around his length, everything seems sloppy and disjointed but fuck, when Pete digs blunt nails into the meat of his ass, when he arches those narrow, sinuous hips like an unspoken prayer, it’s worth every badly timed nudge of cock against the back of his throat.

 

“Enough,” Pete groans, pulling off and leaving Patrick’s dick wet with cooling spit. He takes a moment to respond, nuzzling a little deeper into the warmth of Pete’s groin, the scent of musk that clings to the coarse, dark hair against Patrick’s nose. “C’mon, P, let’s just…”

 

Yeah. Yeah, that’s what Patrick wants too. He wants to own Pete, to mark him out, to leave the scent of his possession branded into secret places and gather things Pete has never given to anyone else. At least, he thinks he hasn’t. He moves, shifts, shuffles, kneels between Pete’s spread legs and strokes a fingertip over the exposed pucker between his cheeks.

 

“This mine?” He asks softly, Pete nods, head tipped back and eyes closed. It’s not enough. Patrick grasps his chin in determined fingertips and makes him look, makes him meet his eyes. “Pete, have you done this before?”

 

“Had sex? Come _on,_ P, I’m twenty-two – “

 

“No,” Patrick corrects, tapping a sharp beat against his hole, commanding the gasp that falls from sweetly swollen lips. “Have you been fucked here?”

 

“No,” Pete admits softly and that… that’s good. That lends a sort of balance to their relationship because Patrick has done it before. Patrick has and that makes him aware in ways Pete isn’t, it means he can try his best to make this good, to make Pete cry out for him.

 

“I love you,” Patrick declares softly, dropping a kiss to the curve of Pete’s golden throat. “I love you and I’m gonna make this good for you, okay?”

 

Pete nods with a sad little smile, “I’m sorry I didn’t – “

 

He silences him with a kiss. That doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is them and this and now. 

 

There are practicalities to deal with, lube and a condom from the nightstand drawer – Pete raises an eyebrow at the latter but Patrick is making a point dammit – and the bedroom door is locked with a _click._ Back on the bed and a dick in each hand he strokes slowly, admires the way muscles flex and tense through Pete’s arms slung over his head, hips arched and glowing with sweat. Two fingers find the lush, eager warmth of Pete’s mouth, sucked and licked and slicked with spit. A trail shining like pearls is scored across the line of an inked collarbone, the sharp valley of his sternum, the leanly defined muscle of his stomach and through the dark curls at the base of his cock. Pete groans but stays still and sure, eyes bright and heavy on Patrick’s as those fingers gently circle the rim of his hole.

 

Patrick’s never done this before, never been the one with his fingers pressed to anyone else’s tight, puckered skin. Nervous and shy, he reaches for the lube and slicks up, presses one gently between Pete’s cheeks and slowly sinks it inside. Pete makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea, a hoarse whisper of _“oh fuck, yes,”_ and Patrick is dizzy with it, with the sighs and the moans and the tight, smooth heat around his finger.

 

Pete’s head rolls back against the pillow as Patrick searches, searches, _finds it;_ that bright little spot of perfect pleasure that thrums inside, that beats with a pulse of urgency as he crooks the tip of a gentle fingertip to feather against it until Pete is muffling cries into the heel of his hand. His teeth glow around his skin, a sparkling pearl suggestion of ecstasy as his free hand gropes for the flushed-dark, blood-hot length of his cock, pearl leaking slick from the tip. Patrick slides in a second, feels the resistance and knows it’ll burn just a little as he lowers his head and lightly licks the slick-shine of precum from the head of Pete’s dick.

 

“Patrick _please,”_ Pete groans like a prayer, shining with need. “Come on, I’m ready – “

 

“You’re _not,”_ Patrick insists, he won’t rush this, won’t ram himself inside and hurt Pete. “Let me just…”

 

He trails off as he tucks a third digit in against the slow thrust of his slicked-up fingers, presses just right, just how he does to himself. Pete tenses with a ragged grunt, head thrashing against the pillow as he moans out _“too much, too much,”_ but it’s not, it’s nowhere close to enough, “Just relax for me, baby…”

 

He strokes the heat of skin stretched taut over sharp hip bones, runs his thumb over the sweat flushed tattoo etched above the swell of Pete’s cock and gently-slowly, feels all three fingers sink deep inside of Pete. He mutters reassurance and filth, promises him everything and something more as he works them slowly in and out, stretching him ready. He finds that spot again and triggers the aching need for _more_ in Pete, the greedy way his hips work against the press of Patrick’s fingers, the desperate hand against the swollen length of his prick. He’s ready and Patrick can’t wait any longer as he withdraws sticky fingers and wipes them quickly against his sheets, reaches for the condom and pauses, uncertain.

 

“I’ve never- I mean… I don’t know how,” he looks at Pete through the golden veil of his lashes, holds it out in invitation because if Pete will take it, if he’ll help roll it over the aching swell of his cock then he’ll feel like Pete _cares._ If he just doesn’t fight back about using one it’ll go some way to redeeming him for that moment in a dark, unknown room in Evanston.

 

He doesn’t hesitate; reaches out with an eager hand and rips open the packet, tugs it free and quickly slips it over Patrick’s cock, the warmth of his hand as he smooths it into place enough to elicit a sharp gasp. He checks it with something close to care before smiling up at Patrick, ducking his head to brush a kiss to the rubbered-up head of his cock, “All good. Now fuck me.”

 

Patrick has done his research. Patrick has bought magazines from the store – the ones they keep hidden on the top shelf – his eyes firmly on the floor as the guy behind the counter smirked at him. He’s hired tapes from the shady video store hidden down a back street – the one where he knows they don’t ask for ID – face burning with embarrassment as he tucked them into his backpack and raced home as fast as he could to stuff them under his mattress. He’s seen men do things to one another he never could have imagined and he wants to try it all at some point, wants to taste and touch and _feel_ the many ways he can enjoy Pete’s body. But right now, what he wants is to slide inside of him, not from behind like Pete did to him, no, he wants to see each reaction flicker across the face he adores more than anything else. So, just like he’s seen on the tapes, he taps Pete on the hip with a soft murmur of _“lift ‘em up,”_ and slings a pillow beneath him. Pete blinks up at him, hands urging Patrick down for a kiss that’s a mess of tongues and lips and spit as Patrick, fumbling with a shaking hand, lines himself up and takes a deep breath, “You ready?”

 

“Fuck yes,” Pete groans into the warmth of Patrick’s mouth, chasing the sentiment with the delicate press of his tongue. Patrick sucks at it briefly then pulls back, eyes fixed carefully on Pete as he slides his hips forward, cock nudging against the tight pucker as Pete’s head begins to thrash once more.

 

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” Patrick whispers as the thick, flared head of his cock presses just inside and he pauses, waits for permission to continue. It’s granted with a rough moan and a plea for _“more,”_ so Patrick does, presses slowly inside inch by glorious, blood-heat-tight inch until he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush to the curve of Pete’s ass.

 

“Fuck,” Pete whines, hand wrapped around his cock once more as Patrick tries to remember how his lungs work, to draw in each breath in a way that doesn’t fill them with molten liquid that threatens to burn him from the inside. “Keep going… Like, _move_ or something…”

 

Patrick moves, hips finding a slow rhythm that thrums through him like a melody, like a song caught in his head, like his heartbeat, like it’s keeping him alive. Pete writhes beneath him with each rock of his hips, the fuck-flushed curve of his lips open in a silent cry, the blood-gorged head of his cock nudging against the soft swell of Patrick’s stomach on each arch upwards. Patrick is dying, he’s sure of it, sinking into something that feels like warm desperation, like he’s drowning and scrabbling but doesn’t want to stop. If he goes, he’ll go out fucking ecstatic. An arch of his hips and Pete screams out, clamps a hand to his mouth with wide eyes as Patrick finds that wonderful little thrum inside of him, as he drags back and forth against it with each slow thrust, as Pete’s pleasure builds with his until he’s muffling shouts on each shove of Patrick’s hips.

 

There’s heat – tight and coiled – low in Patrick’s stomach, heat that pools and spreads slowly through his groin and up into his chest. Warmth that suffuses him with need and desire as he thrusts harder and faster, chasing the tail of ecstatic oblivion. Pete’s pupils are blown, onyx and jet flooded with need as he tugs furiously at his cock caught between them. Patrick can see stars, can see other worlds exploding to nothing and dust as his pulse rings in his ears loud enough to drown out his cries. He’s going to come apart, to split into many and nothing as he shakes down to his core, he’s teetering on the edge of the kind of bliss he’s only ever been able to imagine but he needs Pete to fall down with him. He wraps his hand over Pete’s, works his cock in time with each jagged thrust, strokes him closer in time until…

 

When it happens, he’s sure he’s close to losing consciousness. Each muscle in Pete’s body locking with a kind of desperate greed, pulsing and dragging against the throb of his cock buried deep inside. He sees the fall of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter closed and he exposes the length of his throat like an invitation. Patrick takes it gladly, sinks his greedy teeth into the sweep and curve where his throat dips, bites and sucks and licks his desire into skin that tastes of salt and perfect bliss. He feels the twitch of Pete’s dick against his palm, the way he jerks with passionate bliss into his hand as the warm ooze of his come slicks up their joined hands, pools against his tawny stomach and catches in the soft fuzz of honey blonde hair that peppers Patrick’s stomach. He hears, through the pounding rush of blood, the softly whispered _“I love you,”_ and, in that moment, Patrick lets go.

 

He gives in to the flow and ebb of passion swirling around him, surrenders to each second of throbbing bliss as, with a cry that stings and burns his throat raw, he feels his release slam into him like it’s solid. Nails sink into the sweat-damp skin of Pete’s hip, biting brightly burning crescents of pink into sun-gold skin. His hips work a frantic tattoo against Pete’s as his world tips on its axis and the planets around them crash down to nothing in blinding seconds of pure, molten ecstasy. There’s a hand, slick with come, pressed to his mouth, a bitter-salt testament to his cries that hang between pleasure and too much and he bites down, loses his cries in skin wet with sin and sweat. Each roll of his hips brings another burst of perfect pleasure, another moment that he can’t bear to end.

 

When it stops, when blinding need gives way to weak, tingling sensitivity, he stills. He pauses with his forehead pressed to Pete’s, misted with sweat and stuck slick with strands of hair that mingle between blonde and black and gazes down into eyes like fire and molten amber. He strokes a smooth-shaven cheek with gentle reverence and kisses plump lips like a gentle prayer. Pete holds him close, trembling with tremors as they lean into one another, as warm hands stroke damp skin until Patrick feels like he can move-think-speak again.

 

“I love you,” he whispers, still stroking at the sticky length of Pete’s cock.

 

“I love you too,” Pete replies with a moan, arching close to twist away, aching for more but burning with too much.

 

He might be a secret, might be the tucked away no one knows, but Pete loves him, he loves him and this feels like making previous wrongs right, like everything could be okay. It’s Saturday night and there’s nowhere to be in the morning. He pulls out and tosses the condom, curls around the smooth curve of Pete’s back and drifts to sleep. It’s okay. It has to be okay.

 

*

 

“So, we have a tour and no fucking drummer?” Joe asks, chin propped on his hand as they split a pie between the three of them, molten cheese and sauce that burns swimming with pepperoni and Italian sausage. “No big surprise there. Dude, what are we doing wrong?”

 

“They’re assholes,” Pete declares around a mouthful of half-chewed crust. “That’s what.”

 

“I can do – “

 

“You can sing, hit the chords and play drums? All at the same time?” Joe interrupts with a roll of his eyes and Patrick slinks back into the booth with a blush. “Holy shit, you’re more talented than we thought!”

 

“Fuck you,” he mumbles at his plate. “Any better ideas?”

 

Pete chews his pie slowly, takes a deliberate sip of his Pepsi Free and stares off across the room. It’s the kind of lame, kitsch place that loads the walls with fifties Americana like that’s anything more than the decade Patrick’s parents grew up in. Like he should be impressed by pictures of Cubs players that retired decades ago, or posters for movies he wouldn’t be caught dead watching, or Buddy Holly records – okay, he sort of likes those, but in a jukebox, not hammered to a wall. But they _do_ make great pie, that much he has to admit, so they sit here each week and talk shit to one another with whichever drummer they have in tow at the time. Only right now, that fourth seat is empty and, with the tour a week or two away, Patrick is starting to panic.

 

“You guys need to learn to trust me,” Pete grins, slow and easy and raises his glass in a toast. “To Fall Out Boy.”

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Joe grouses into his breadsticks. “We should just rename ourselves Fall Out Fucked and have done – ”

 

He stops, eyes wide, as someone slides into the booth with a soft, knowing sort of smile. Pete continues to grin like the world owes him something and Patrick comes close to choking on a mouthful of melted cheese and sausage.

 

“Hey,” Andy waves an awkward greeting and frowns down at the pie. “Does this place do vegan options?”

 

This can’t be real. Patrick knows – he’s learnt well enough by now – that great things don’t happen to this band. And Andy Hurley would be a fucking _great_ thing. Yeah, sure, he laid down the drums on their demo but he made it clear it was a one time thing, just returning a few favours he owed Pete on a quiet day with his _actual_ band, he wasn’t signing up. Patrick kind of got the impression that it wasn’t the music that made him so reticent but rather Pete himself, muttered comments about imploding clusterfucks that made him wonder. But still here he is as large as life and with a grin on his face that suggests this could be the start of something big.

 

He chews a breadstick contemplatively as Joe explodes into barely nuanced sound that doesn’t deserve the title of “actual English words,” watches with sharp eyes as Pete grins like he’s won something and Andy smiles with self-effacing charm. He listens to three or four rounds of Joe’s awestruck yelps and Pete’s repeated “fucking told you, didn’t I?” before he interrupts quietly.

 

“This is permanent, right?” He asks around a mouthful of his soda. “You’re not just fucking with us like last time?”

 

“I never…” Andy trails off awkwardly as a stunned silence descends on the table.

 

“Don’t be so fucking _bogus,_ dude,” Joe admonishes sharply, for all the world as though he’ll use his dinner knife for something dangerous. “Hurley’s cool.”

 

“You’ve avoided us for six months,” Patrick reasons softly. “Why the change of heart?”

 

Andy in his oversized white t shirt, loose jeans and battered Nikes, with the crosses inked stark on the back of his hands and his hair shaved close and short like every other high-horse owning straight edge kid Patrick’s ever met stares at Patrick through the lenses of his glasses. He stares and he seems to consider his answer, a sharp little glance flicked at Pete who flinches a little, shuffles in his seat like he’s uncomfortable. There’s something going on here that Patrick doesn’t understand, something that’s happened that no one’s told him about. He knows Andy used to play for Arma Angelus, knows he quit just when it seemed like the band might go somewhere, but he doesn’t know _why._ A glance at Pete from under his lashes tells him Pete knows _exactly_ what went wrong and that’s a conversation they’ll have later, just for them and away from prying eyes.

 

“That demo I helped you with,” Andy breaks the silence with a shrug. “It was good. It felt… Right. You’re not the kind of thing I usually do, not the sort of music I make, I had to be sure that _this_ was worth the risk of jumping ship, you know?”

 

“So, you… auditioned us?” Patrick can feel a sneer curling his lip; who the fuck does this asshole think he is. “Like you’re too fucking good for us?”

 

“No,” Andy seems far more patient than anyone has any right to be under the circumstances. In a band that contains Pete, patience can only be a good thing. “I waited to see if you guys were going to hold shit together for more than five minutes. Pete has… a reputation, you relate? He changes bands like most people change their underwear – ”

 

“Except I don’t _wear_ underwear,” Pete interrupts with a laugh that breaks the tension. “Stop being so fucking heinous, dude! This is fucking _radical_ for us, for the _band!”_

 

Patrick won’t admit it – he won’t, no matter what Pete does or says – that his objections are borne from irritation at yet another secret. This is something else that Pete has done behind his back and without his knowledge and he burns and stings with the _“what else?”_ how many other secrets are hiding behind those amber eyes. So instead he eats his pizza like a good boy and refuses to frame his thoughts into words; not right now, not with everyone watching and Andy with eyes as sharp as knives.

 

He hears them, when he follows them into the bathroom later, the low hum of their voices too much to resist as he pauses just inside the door.

 

“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” Andy hisses through clenched teeth.

 

“No,” Pete objects quickly over the blast of the faucet. Patrick’s stomach plummets to his shoes even though he knows it shouldn’t, even though he knows they agreed to keep it just between them because hearing Pete deny him hurts more than he ever imagined it could. “P’s a good kid, we’re friends.”

 

“Don’t fucking bullshit me,” Andy snaps. “You’re fucking him. I won’t walk away, you’ve got something good, something _real,_ but if you fuck up again…”

 

“I won’t,” Pete mutters and Patrick can imagine the petulant scowl that must crease his features and purse his lips, the irritated line of narrowed eyes that burn like heated copper. “You worry too much.”

 

“He’s just a kid, how old is he anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen?” Andy asks with sharp reprimand to his tone. Patrick bristles – he’s not a fucking _kid_ – and considers just slipping away.

 

“Seventeen,” Pete corrects to a sharp hiss of reprove from Andy.

 

“You’re fucking _kidding_ me, right?” He snarls. “Dude, do the kind thing and break it off with him before the band implodes from under you… Again.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Pete laughs and Patrick can hear the roll of his eyes, the playful smile that will edge lips that Patrick’s kissed and touched and pressed his cock between more times than he can count. “He’s a kid, he’s having fun, this is _fine.”_

 

Patrick slams the door against the wall to announce his presence, stomps on heavy boots into the bathroom to smile the kind of bright smile he absolutely doesn’t feel at two frozen figures in the mirror. He can see the question in exchanged glances in the glass; how much did he hear? What does he know? He smiles so sweet and so wide that they soon relax and he’s gotten away with it, they have no idea he was eavesdropping.

 

“Just taking a leak,” he declares, unzipping at the urinal and staring down into the bowl.

 

They wash their hands behind him and mumble something about getting back to the table, two guys running scared from the fear of discovery. Patrick takes a moment to rest his forehead against the tile, to zip himself back up and stand at the sink splashing cold water onto a face flushed burning crimson with humiliation. Just a kid having fun. That’s all Pete sees him as.

 

He stares himself hard in the eye in the mirror and dares the weak kid staring back to shout and rage and demand an answer.

 

Out at the table and glasses are raised in a toast, soda sloshing onto the last of the pie as Andy orders a salad and fries. The two-week tour is happening and Pete glows with the kind of excitement that only the promise of a crowd can spark in him. He lives to command the stage and all around it, to glow like a flame under eyes that want him and mouths that scream his lyrics back at him. He shines for them in ways Patrick’s never been able to replicate.

 

He wants to go home – don’t judge him, okay – he wants to curl up in his bed and forget this whole thing ever happened, to block words whispered in a restaurant bathroom like he can summon amnesia. He’s just a horny kid to Pete, desperate and willing and eager to please.

 

Tonight, Patrick’s the one to drive, it’s his neat little Honda out in the parking lot and something about that makes him feel powerful. He possesses the space as he drives everyone around town, dropping off Joe at his place, Andy at the house of some friend he’s crashing with and then, instead of taking the familiar route through Wilmette, he heads for the tranquillity of the lake. If Pete is surprised, he doesn’t show it, just lounges back into the passenger seat as he stares off out of the window. Patrick’s not sure if it irritates him or not, this unflappable self-assurance. Then, he supposes he’s never had to crawl into Pete’s head during a depressive episode, hasn’t had to experience the daily shakes and headaches and lethargy triggered by the lithium. Maybe he has it better, he just can’t tell anymore.

 

He stops the car in a parking lot close to the shore, with the windows down he can hear the water moving, carried on the early autumn air that swirls with just a pinch of cool to it, just enough to ease the sweat that prickles under his arms. He sits, legs swung out of the car and boots planted on the asphalt as he stares down at his clasped hands in front of him.

 

“Something wrong, Baby P?” Pete asks softly; it’s a victory, him speaking first, something Patrick could get used to. “You seemed… I don’t know. Weird, earlier.”

 

“Can I ask you something?” Patrick begins quietly, addressing the lines and creases scored into his palms. “And like, get an honest answer?”

 

“You heard us in the bathroom, didn’t you?” There’s a smile in Pete’s voice that Patrick wants to smack from his face, fists clenched tight and nails biting into his palms as he huffs out a breath. “That’s why you sat looking ready to cut a bitch all night, right?”

 

“Listen,” Patrick begins, irritated when Pete does just that, silence between them that twinkles with Pete’s amusement and throbs with Patrick’s irritation. “Just, listen, okay?”

 

“I’m listening,” Pete points out reasonably – since when is Pete _reasonable?_ – and Patrick tries to remember his point.

 

“You said… You said I was just a kid having fun,” he replies, voice thin and whiney and irritating, even to his own ears.

 

“You’re seventeen.” He can hear the shrug in those words, taste the indifference. “You _are_ a kid and… aren’t we having fun?”

 

“You said it like we didn’t matter,” Patrick insists, doubt creeping in at the edges. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like always feeling one step behind. Another thought occurs to him. “And you didn’t tell me about Hurley.”

 

“I didn’t tell Joe either – ”

 

“I’m supposed to be _special!”_ Patrick snaps and then feels ridiculous; who the hell does he think he is? What the fuck does he think he sounds like? Pete seems to agree, a low snort of laughter sharp at the back of his throat as he snags Patrick’s belt in his fingers, tugging him until he slides back into the car, chin propped on the steering wheel as he stares out into the darkness.

 

“You’re definitely something, P,” Pete chuckles softly, stroking a hand over his thigh. “Okay, so what if I told you and he backed out? Hmm? And yeah, maybe I played “us” down but come _on,_ you want to scare him away before he’s really part of this?”

 

“I feel like you’re ashamed of me,” Patrick has no idea when someone removed his personality and replaced it with that of a Molly Ringwald character but he’d rather like his testicles back, please. That would be fucking _radical._

 

“Hey, P,” Pete whispers, stays silent until Patrick turns slowly to meet the heat of his gaze, to meet the warm plush of his lips and the damp brush of his tongue sweet and soft and flavoured with cheesecake. They kiss themselves breathless and dizzy and Patrick decides – don’t, don’t try and talk him out of it, it makes _sense,_ okay? – that this couldn’t possibly be a lie. He strokes the grate of Pete’s stubble and doesn’t object as his jeans are yanked open and his dick eased free. He closes his eyes and tips back his head as Pete slides his mouth down over him, the slide of his lips like fervent prayer until he comes, strangled cry ragged on his lips, hips rocking, down Pete’s throat.

 

“I love you, P,” Pete whispers, with kisses from bitter-tasting lips. “Don’t you trust me?”

 

Patrick whispers that he loves him too. He just isn’t sure he trusts him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, maybe they're starting to get somewhere...
> 
> I mean, probably not, but you know, we can dream! If you're enjoying it, say hi! I'm really nice, I swear and comments encourage me to keep writing...
> 
> Oh, also, I might possibly shift this to Wednesday from next week when my other fic has concluded so don't worry if you don't see it on Tuesday.


	9. I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn a little more about why Pete is _Pete..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hope you've all had a great week! I'd like to thank laudanum_cafe once again for taking a look over everything for me.
> 
> This week's title comes from The Outsiders. You may have read the book, but there's also a movie. And you guys have probably worked out by now how much I love 80s movies...

The thing about driving around the Midwest is how _endless_ it all seems. Flat and stretching away into the horizon no matter which direction the van points in, it’s all the same, repetitive and constant and all-consuming. Patrick hates driving the van, hates manoeuvring it into parking spots in rest stops or, even worse, lining it up to get gas. He hates the heater blowing a constant stream of furnace-hot air directly into his eyes leaving them dry and stinging. He hates trying to coax the damn thing to creep any higher than 50.

What he doesn’t hate is Pete’s casual insistence that he’ll keep him company each and every time. Pete with his eyes rimmed dark with insomnia, regarding the stretch of midnight-inked highway stretching out ahead of them, map spread out on his lean thighs as he watches for off-ramps and a can of Jolt balanced between his skinny knees. When Joe and Andy sleep in the back, that’s when they get their moments alone, the moments Pete can reach across and lace their fingers loosely over the parking brake and whisper the things they can’t say otherwise. That’s when driving doesn’t seem so bad.

They can’t afford a motel room every night – can barely afford one every third or fourth night, a necessity if they don’t want to smell truly offensive – but when they do, it’s one room between four of them. No chance of privacy, no opportunity to be alone.

It’s strange, opening up the dynamic to include Andy, to accept someone into the group that was sort of there before but not quite. Someone that knows a different Pete – the furious Pete in his late teens, full of anger and self-hatred – a Pete that Patrick will never meet. But he’s a nice guy; quiet, unassuming and laidback, never complains if all he can eat is Oreos and bottled water at whichever rest stop they manage to find after a show. Yeah, Patrick likes him, at least he likes him more than any of the other drummers they’ve managed to conjure up so far.

Tonight, is a driving night, Patrick will guide the van through the darkness and, when they arrive at their next venue, he’ll stretch out on a seat and doze whilst the others set up around him. That’s assuming it’s not another cancellation, another incident of being turned away and told there just wasn’t enough interest. How can they generate interest, Patrick wonders, if no one will give them the chance to play? It’s the only opportunity they have, the only chance to present their songs to a room of kids and hope against hope that at least a couple of them buy a cassette from the battered cardboard box they keep in the van, copied from their master tape and scrawled with Pete’s chicken scratch handwriting.

Pete hums softly from the passenger seat, working through a breakdown they’ve been struggling with, his hand rough and warm over Patrick’s as they wind along the road. Patrick wishes he’d give him something more; that he’d stroke his cheek or slide his fingers through his hair. He won’t – Patrick knows that, he’s not stupid – won’t do any more than score circles into the back of Patrick’s hand with the pad of his thumb as he hums. Hands are hidden, Patrick reminds himself, hands can’t be seen from the back seat.

“We should tell them,” Patrick mutters at the windshield, like he can pretend the conversation isn’t with Pete if he doesn’t look at him. He knows he’s playing with fire, that he’s never going to get the answer that he wants and yet… Ignoring it hasn’t worked so far. Pete grunts quietly, questioning. “Joe and Andy? We should tell them, about us.”

Pete snorts derisively and lets go of Patrick’s hand, reaching for the lukewarm Jolt that’s sat directly in front of the heater vent for thirty minutes. He takes a swig and grimaces slightly, swiping the back of his mouth with his wrist as Patrick waits for him to say something.

“Why?” He asks. Patrick stings with the fact that Pete doesn’t reach for his hand again, so he returns it carefully to the steering wheel. Pete curls in on himself defensively, knees drawn up against his chest as he stares out of the window beside him. “What difference would it make?”

“It would mean we didn’t have to hide,” Patrick assumes that’s pretty obvious but apparently, Pete thinks otherwise. “I’m not saying like, a fucking two-page spread in the Tribune, asshole. Just our band, our _friends.”_

“Okay, fine, when we get to the next bar I’ll blow you in the bathroom,” Pete rolls his eyes as though Patrick is the biggest asshole walking. “Will _that_ make you stop with this… this fucking _bullshit_ , Patrick?”

Patrick winces – tries not to, but can’t help it – and stares with concentrated fury at the road ahead. It’s one step forward and two back and he won’t take it lying down anymore, he’s dealt with this utter fucking horse shit for months and he can’t bear it for a moment longer. He wants the Pete from the lakeside parking lot, the one that declared his adoration like he wasn’t ashamed.

“No,” Patrick hisses, a quick glance flicked at two sleeping faces in the back. It’s okay. They’re still alone. As alone as they’ll get. “No, we’re talking about this now. Why the fuck do you act like two different people? When we’re alone you tell me you love me, as soon as there’s someone else around you act like I’m just this irritating kid treading on your heels. We’re together, aren’t we? What’s the fucking _problem_ , Pete?”

“We’re supposed to be in a goddamn _band_ , P,” he snarls back, voice low and colour high on his cheeks. His fists clench sharp against his thighs and Patrick’s glad he’s driving, it makes it less likely that Pete will take a swing. He wonders absently if it should concern him that he thinks of that as a risk, Pete’s never _actually_ hit him. “You want to fuck it all up just so you can say we’re going steady like a fucking chick flick? What are you? A fucking fifteen-year-old _girl?”_

“I’m a dude with no fucking idea where he stands,” Patrick snaps, bouncing a fist against the seat next to him. “I ask you for something pretty fucking _standard_ and you act like I’m asking for a marriage proposal! I just want you to tell people I’m your fucking boyfriend!”

Pete flinches back at the last word and suddenly, Patrick thinks he might get, thinks he might be starting to understand. His voice is a low, furious hiss when he next speaks, fire and venom chasing the words as he snarls at Pete.

“Oh, is that it?” Pete twitches back again, pressed to the window as he glares down at his socks, shoes abandoned on the van floor. “A _boyfriend?_ You don’t want anyone to know you like fucking _boys,_ Pete? You don’t want them to know you like sucking cock, like a dick up your ass? _My_ dick? Punk Prince of fucking Pussy, _that’s_ what you want them to think?”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Pete’s voice is monotone, eyes unreadable.

“We’ll talk about this _now,”_ Patrick insists, nails digging blunt into Pete’s thigh, eyes burning fire into the side of Pete’s face as he refuses to meet his gaze. “Fucking look at me. Look me in the goddamn face and tell me you’re a fucking self-hating homophobic _faggot._ Look at me! Fucking _look – ”_

There’s a thump as the van leaves the road and time seems to slow down whilst simultaneously speeding up, everything swirling in a weird sort of half time. He sees Pete, not wearing his seatbelt, slam forward into the dash, arm flung up to protect his face. He feels the wheel wrenching through his hands as he tries desperately to right the path of the van without throwing them into oncoming traffic because somehow, some-fucking-how, the previously deserted road is now a mess of headlights spinning with his vision. He sees Pete slide to the floor, down into the footwell but not how he usually would, not to suck Patrick’s dick and mutter pretty words he knows Patrick wants to hear. No, he thinks Pete might be unconscious as Andy shouts something unintelligible behind him, as Joe screams profanity and the van lurches, swaying like it might tip before finally – fucking _finally_ – lurching to a halt at the side of the freeway, pointing in the wrong direction but otherwise unscathed.

He flinches as a truck rumbles past, the driver leaning on the airhorn and the noise blasting in his ears as he blinks and breathes and wonders if he’s actually still alive. Maybe this is the last of living thought slipping away in glaring light and blasting sound as he dies in an upside-down van mounted on the front of a semi-trailer truck.

The noise dies away to silence, to nothing but harsh breathing that joins the pounding of blood in his ears. He can hear the dreamy, far-away rustle of movement behind him as he flexes his fingers against his palms to make sure he’s still _there._ It’s nothing but static rushing in his ears as he waits for something to happen and tries to remember something he thinks he should be doing. It rushes back on him with all the profound clarity of tunnel vision, closing in on him as sound replaces the ringing in his skull and the world explodes around him once more.

“What the fuck just happened?” Joe is scrambling over benches and tossed around equipment, his blue eyes wide and desperate. “My fucking _van,_ dude, what the fuck?”

“Pete?” Patrick whispers, fumbling for his seatbelt with hands that don’t feel real, gasping for air with lungs that burn like liquid fire as he half throws himself, half falls across the front seat to get to Pete. Pete who isn’t moving, scrunched up small and pale with blood oozing thick and dangerous from somewhere close to his hairline. “Pete! Fucking _answer me_ , man. _Pete!”_

“Oh shit,” he hears Andy hiss. “I didn’t fucking sign up for this…”

Patrick, for his part, is convinced Pete is dead. Convinced there’s no other reason he could possibly be so still and so pale, carved from wax and slumped into the footwell as blood makes its sluggish way down over his brow. He’s dead – he hiccups with burning sobs that tear frantically against the back of his throat – and it’s all Patrick’s fault. If he hadn’t yelled, if he hadn’t demanded answers that didn’t fucking _matter_ , if he’d just paid attention to the road and not whatever the Hell had seemed so important at the time. It seems to take hours for Andy to climb out of the back and circle to the front of the van, for him to pull open the door and help Patrick haul Pete upright into the seat. It seems to take _hours_ but it can’t be more than a few seconds until Pete is groaning and blinking and trying to prod tenderly at his brow, swatting at them irritably as they pull his hands away.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Patrick says, panic bright and burning in his voice. “What the fuck do we _do,_ Andy?”

“ER?” Andy asks, as calm and collected as Patrick has ever seen anyone be. Why isn’t he panicking? Why isn’t he twitching with unspent nerves and adrenaline in the way that Patrick is? “Pete? Do you think you need a doctor?”

Patrick wonders why he’s asking the person with a head trauma if he needs medical assistance.

“`m fine,” Pete slurs, groggy and fogged and Patrick’s heart lurches with guilt. “Just… Just need to sleep.”

“I’ll pay for a motel,” Patrick whispers, guilt savaging a gaping wound in his chest. “I have some… My mom gave me money for emergencies. I can pay for it. Two rooms, so he can rest. Let’s just… Let’s just find someplace with a room and get him some sleep, okay?”

No one argues as Joe circles the van for damage – like he’d be able to spot any on the shit bucket – a few choicer insults sent Patrick’s way before he climbs behind the wheel and Patrick helps Pete onto a bench. For once, Pete doesn’t object as they curl together against the upholstery, doesn’t say anything at all in fact as Patrick presses a kiss to his neck and whispers in his ear, “I’m sorry. But you’re still an asshole.”

Pete just chuckles like it hurts and nudges a gentle punch to Patrick’s jaw, his eyes fluttering sleepy and soft. They find a motel, find a room, find the bed and collapse together, fully clothed. He curls himself around Pete, protective and safe, as he uses the towel in the bathroom to clean up the gash to Pete’s head, hauling him into his lap and stroking gentle fingers through his hair.

“I get it now,” he murmurs. “I get it but I don’t like it. You’re _gay_ , Pete. Okay, maybe you’re bi, but either way, you like men. You like _me_ , and you need to stop… stop hating yourself for it. Please. _Please._ Because it feels like you’re saying you hate _me_.”

“Don’t hate you, baby,” Pete mumbles voice thick and soft around the concussion. Patrick remains entirely convinced that Pete needs a doctor, not a sweaty teenager in a leather jacket and tight jeans but Pete slurred his insistence in the van. “Love you. You know that. Let me… want me to suck your dick, Baby P?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to try swallowing anything right now,” Patrick manages to laugh somehow, around the tight ball of panic and rejection lodged in his throat. “Maybe tomorrow morning. Our own room, dude,” he hears the way wistfulness chases the edges of his words, “Like a real couple. Big bed. Man, we should be taking advantage of this…”

Pete is already out, snoring softly and Patrick thinks – with an irritated shake of his head – that only Pete could use a fucking freeway wreck to ease his way out of a conversation he didn’t want to have. Only Pete. He wipes away another smudge of blood and sighs at the clock on the nightstand; it’s going to be a long night.

They wake early the next morning, a furious dash of denim and leather clad boys rushing for their van, hurried along by the knowledge that they’re already hours behind. Patrick finds himself exempt from van duty by a narrow-eyed Joe. It’s not a loss he intends to mourn. Pete seems to make an effort after Patrick’s furious desperation in the front seat of the van, catching Patrick for a stolen moment in the bathroom and behind closed doors, precious seconds of warm lips and rough hands that work him into a frenzy. His underwear will be ruined, left sticky and stained and he knows that he’ll run out of spares before Pete runs out of passion. He tells himself it’s love, shared in a bathroom with thin stall walls and the smell of bleach barely masking the stench of piss soaked into the floors.

That’s all they have, Patrick on the closed toilet seat and trying not to think about what his bare ass is pressed to as Pete straddles him, stroking him quick and hard between their bodies as Patrick muffles moans into sweat-damp and ink-stained skin. Pete’s breathing his filth – _their_ filth – into Patrick’s ear, voice alight with all of the things he intends to do to him once they’re home. Patrick is losing control, hips straining upward as he tries to get more, more friction, more skin, more sweat and come and nails biting into his back. Pete’s already finished, cock close to soft and framed by damp, dark curls, Patrick’s dick is flushed red and shining with spit and sliding through Pete’s hand.

“Come for me, P,” Pete whispers, low and soft and lost against the skin of Patrick’s throat. “I know you’re close, just let go for me, come on, I – ”

He falls silent, tight and tense and eyes wide as the bathroom door opens outside of their stall. Always a risk, always something that could happen, they’ve been lucky so far. He squeezes Patrick’s shaft a little harder in panic and Patrick buries the moan in a bite to Pete’s throat as they wait… wait…

“Pete?” Andy calls out. “You in here? We’re going on soon, I just… wanted to let you know.”

“Uh, yeah,” Pete replies, voice catching on the last word as Patrick, mischief in his eyes and his smile, reaches down to stroke a finger over his hole, pressing the tip in with a grin. Pete scowls, shifts a little against him and tries to move away. Patrick presses his finger in a little further, making his point.

“Right, yeah,” Andy pauses, Patrick can hear the squeak of the faucet, the rush of water cascading into the sink. “Uh, you seen Patrick?”

“N-no,” Pete stammers, eyes narrowed viciously at Patrick as he smoothly searches with a come-slicked finger for Pete’s prostate, finds it with a playful little wiggle of his fingertip that makes Pete twitch with a yelp. “Mother _fucker_ …”

“Everything… _okay_ in there?” Andy asks.

“Fine,” Pete barks, pressing down against Patrick’s finger as his cock twitches and stirs between them once more. Patrick rolls his hips with a smirk, grazing the length of his dick against Pete’s. “Just fine, be out in a minute, yeah?”

“Sure,” Andy’s voice drifts towards the door but just before the squeak of hinges he clears his throat, the hint of laughter teasing his words as he speaks. “Patrick? I can see your boots, man. Five minutes, okay? Swear to fucking _God_ , you guys, fucking _seriously_ …”

“Asshole,” Pete hisses, hand scoring the rhythm of a song Patrick wants to write for them against the rock-hard length of his prick. “Fucking _asshole.”_

As he comes, hot and blinding, streaking ribbons across the tensed-hard muscle of Pete’s bare stomach, he doesn’t give much of a fuck.

The show is perfect in ways Patrick can’t describe. Maybe it’s the final fizz of his orgasm rocketing through his blood as bright and perfect as oxygen, or maybe it’s the crowd screaming back lyrics like they do in Chicago, or maybe it’s the way Pete leans into him as he plays, head dropped to Patrick’s shoulder and fire in his eyes. Patrick doesn’t know, he just knows it sings through him like a chorus. It’s not his guitar, his wasn’t close to good enough for an actual tour so he’s borrowed one from Joe, the unfamiliar strap and weight  biting into the tender skin of his neck as he presses chords into the frets and turns their lyrics free to soar from his throat out and over the room.

The kids in front of them are insane, buoyed on bootleg tapes sent around the Midwest in battered envelopes, traded in high school corridors just like Patrick has done himself, will do again no doubt, music shared with the joy and passion that they buzz with, taking up their battle cry to take on the world together. Patrick lives for this, lives for the moments their music, _his_ music, sings through his veins and pounds in his skull with the drums. He knows he needs it like he needs air, like he needs _Pete_ , that his life could never, would never, be as satisfying without this in it. He feels it as he leans into Pete in the split second before he blurs away in a mess of fury and pounding bass.

When they slam to a close of clashing strings and drums like heartbeats the crowd goes insane as they swirl and circle in the pit. They scream for more, for everything and Patrick realises it’s just like sex, like that moment of losing himself in Pete, always hungry for more, always aching and needing. It’s perfect.

They’re paid in a fistful of crumpled dollars, barely enough to pay for the gas home, barely enough to make it worthwhile but Patrick knows they just earned so much more as Pete empties the box of cassettes, exchanging their music for a couple of dollars a tape. It’s not much but it’s something, it’s people that _want_ to hear them again.

Patrick works quietly with Joe and Andy, winding cables and packing away their kit, loading the van in just the right way so that nothing will get crushed or broken. Pete is nowhere to be found but if he’s making money Patrick supposes he doesn’t really care. He talks nervously to a couple of kids from the crowd, trying his best to take the easy compliments of _"_ _you were awesome man,"_ with the kind of easy, relaxed smile he knows Pete would give. He doesn’t even falter when a battered cassette and a marker are pushed into his hands, signing his autograph for the first time in neat, careful print. He wonders if he should have practised.

“You seen Pete?” He asks Joe, but gets little more than a shrug in response. Joe just wants to get back behind the van, to light up a blunt and put something mellow onto the post show high. He finds Andy, standing at the bar with a 7Up and repeats his question. “Pete?”

“No idea, man,” Andy shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Hey, you want a drink? They said they’d toss in some freebies as a bonus.”

If Patrick were paying attention, he might notice the flash of concern in Andy’s eyes as he turns to push back through the crowd. If his wits were sharp and not dulled by the passion of the show still singing through him like a war cry, he might notice the edge to Andy’s voice as he once again tells him to stay and get a drink. But he’s high on music and lonely for Pete, wants to pull him someplace quiet for a tender kiss and the soft touch of hands against skin. He wants ‘Pete and Patrick’ for a few moments, just a breath of something sweet amongst the smell of stale beer and lingering sweat.

He searches through the crowd for a black mohawk and skin like honey painted with jet but there’s no one to be found. No battered box with rough-looking cassettes, no push of the small crowd that he always commands. Pete glows with something people find irresistible and that’s what makes Patrick feel so special; Pete chose him.

He’s not in the bathroom, not by the bar, not lounging out by the van with Joe so Patrick checks the only place left; the tiny room they were given to change. He almost wanted to laugh at the time, the suggestion that they had something more presentable to wear out on the stage when they’ve been living out of a van was so charmingly optimistic. He shoves the door inwards and immediately feels his world crash down to nothing, to so much dust and aching wreckage at his feet as Pete scrambles back against the wall with wide eyes and excuses on his lips.

“Patrick, what the fuck are… it’s not what it… I swear to God, I…” He stammers with excuses, never completing one before rolling on to the next and the one after that. The girl sits on the table where Pete left her – where Pete was pressed between her fucking thighs – her confusion as obvious as Patrick’s hot fired fury. Bandmates don’t behave like this over a make out session with a girl from the crowd, Patrick reminds himself. Best friends don’t react like this when the other gets lucky.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Patrick spits and rage coats every word, every syllable that slides from his tongue to fire barbed and poisonous at Pete.

“Just leave it, Patrick,” Pete warns with eyes that beg for acquiescence, for Patrick to just play nice like he always does, for him to back down and retreat to the van where they can talk about it later. Or never. Pete would much prefer it if they never spoke of it again, that much is obvious in every feature. “Not right now, okay?”

“No,” Patrick snarls. “Right now. Right fucking _now._ What the _fuck,_ Pete?”

“Am I like _interrupting_ something?” She asks doubtfully and Patrick hates her even though he knows he shouldn’t. He hates her for the way she curves in all of the right places, the way she’ll smell of _girl_ when Pete nips kisses to her neck. She has the lure Pete can’t seem to resist of burying himself in the heat of a random pussy – _her_ pussy – when he could have been someplace quiet and hidden sucking Patrick’s dick. Patrick knows he shouldn’t hate her – he gets that – but it’s so hard to be rational when he knows his boyfriend was just licking her fucking tonsils. It’s even harder because he knows he can’t rage and curse and throw things – preferably punches and preferably at Pete – because of some twisted sense of loyalty that he tells himself is to the band but he knows is all for Pete.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, straight at Pete, straight into the honey warm depths of eyes stripped cold and panicked, blown black with fear not lust as he begs with a glance for Patrick to keep his mouth shut. At least, that’s what it seems like as he stumbles a step backwards and straight into Andy.  “I’ll be in the van.”

He thinks he hears Andy mutter something protective and furious at Pete in the moment he turns on his heel and blazes down the corridor, something that sounds like _nice fucking going, asshole_. He wonders absently what the girl must think, sat there with her chain-bedecked mini skirt all pushed up around her waist, with the print of Pete’s hands burning into her skin and the taste of his mouth lingering on her lips. He decides he doesn’t fucking care, let her tell the world whatever half-baked rumour she wants to come up with. This is Pete’s problem, not Patrick’s.

There’s a hand on his arm and warm, dark eyes regarding him with the kind of pity Patrick just doesn’t want. He tries to shrug Andy off, tries to twist away so he can just find somewhere to _hurt_ for a few minutes. Andy won’t let go, hauling him into a hug and muttering reassurance into his ear as he breathes hard and fast against the Social Distortion shirt under his cheek. Just a dumb kid having fun, he reminds himself. It doesn’t feel fun anymore. It just _aches_.

“C’mon, kid,” Andy murmurs and, okay, he could do without the kid but the sympathy feels pretty good right now. “I saw a diner not far from here. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Not hungry,” Patrick objects.

“I am,” Andy insists, herding him along like a stubborn toddler until they’re free of the smoke and sweat of the club, away from everything that makes Patrick’s skin sting with fury. Away from _Pete._

They walk in silence along the sidewalk, through the puddles of artificial light cast by the glow of the streetlights overhead, Nikes and DMs striking a beat as they fall into step – that’s drummers for you – and make their way towards the shine of the diner up ahead. They’re seated, scruffy and sweaty but it doesn’t matter, the place is close to deserted and Patrick huddles into the corner of the booth with a sigh.

“I want to talk to you about Pete,” Andy begins quietly when their food is placed on the table in front of them, pausing to pluck a fry from his plate, a beat of silence that Patrick rushes to fill.

“I don’t want to hear _anything_ about that bag of fucking _dicks,”_ he insists. “He can do what he wants, I – ”

“I know you heard us,” Andy interrupts. “At the pizza place? I thought maybe you might want to know a little more about him and _then_ you can decide what you want from him.”

Patrick considers that as he picks at his cheeseburger without much interest. He can’t get the image of her out of his head, of the panicked fear in Pete’s eyes or the way he’d thrown himself back against the wall, hands raised defensively. He nods reluctantly and, with a sigh, Andy seems to deliberate for a moment before beginning softly.

“So, you know I was in Arma for a while, right?” Patrick nods in response. “Okay, so Pete’s been a fucking train wreck since I met him, and he was like, eighteen back then. Barely any older than you.”

Patrick grunts. Age isn’t an excuse to treat people like dirt.

“Anyway, he had this… friend. Another dude from the punk scene and they were… they were real _close,”_ he pauses, lets that hang for a moment before continuing. “Can you guess where this is going, Patrick? I walked in on them at some fucking dumb party one night and, well, they were doing stuff I’ve never done with any of my _friends_. I didn’t _care_ , why the fuck would I? I just left the room and found someplace else to be but Pete… He wigged the fuck out, dude. _Not_ radical. He like, smashed the fucking room and… I don’t know what happened but the kid never came back.”

Patrick mulls that over for a moment, the fury he’s seen blazing in Pete, the raging self-hatred that seems to ooze from him now and again. It doesn’t matter – it really fucking _doesn’t_ – it doesn’t give him the right to take it out on Patrick.

“Pete’s into dudes,” Andy declares. “But he _hates_ that he is, throws himself at girls as a distraction, burns the fucking world down around him so he won’t have to think about it. That’s why I walked away from the band – I didn’t _care_ about his sexuality but I couldn’t keep watching him try to fight the world over it. Especially when the world didn’t give a shit. You know how self-absorbed he is, right? Anyway, I got tired of it, the fucking bullshit, the people he hurt and I walked away. Imagine my goddamn surprise when I realised what was happening with the two of you.”

“He loves me,” Patrick objects, though the sentiment rings weak and feeble with the memory of a short skirt and guilty eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sure he does,” Andy nods. “But do you want this? You want to nurse his ego? You want to watch your band fall down around you like a fucking plane crash because he can’t deal with himself? Do the smart thing, Patrick, take this back to what it was, to what _works_ , Pete is the bassist and you’re the singer and we make something fucking _righteous_.”

“He loves me,” Patrick repeats sullenly, cramming in a bite of his burger so he has something to do other than staring miserably at Andy. “He’ll come around.”

There’s a long silence between them, just the sound of tinny music trickling from the speakers above them and the thud of Andy’s heel against the booth. Patrick hums with silent fury, with that same rage Andy spoke about that makes him want to tear down everything around him, to head onto the street and throw punches at the first asshole that looks at him. He wants everything to burn and everyone to hurt because then it’s fair, then it’s equal.

“I hope you’re right,” Andy sighs, dropping a handful of bills onto table between them. “For everyone’s sake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go. A sniff of an insight.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated, comments and kudos and whatnot.
> 
> I hope you guys have a great weekend and, oh, if you're interested, next week will be Have Yourself Some Merry Little Peterick - a collection of works posted by some fantastic authors, all of it Christmas-themed Peterick. I'm _so_ excited for it it's unreal! Anyway, those will be posted next Wednesday - the 20th - so please do check them out, you won't be disappointed!


	10. This is my age! I'm in the prime of my youth, and I'll only be young once!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pete reveals more than Patrick is ready to hear...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry about last week. I was completely caught up with Merry Little Peterick (have you read them? You should!) and then Christmas stuff and... Yeah. You get it. Also, there's been the Bandom Exchange 2017 which I fully recommend - they're all anonymous at the moment but a shiny gold star to anyone that spots me!
> 
> Chapter title is from Stand By Me, again, give it a watch, it's an amazing movie. As always, a big thanks to laudanum_cafe for her help with this.

_I’m sorry._

If Patrick was hoping to hear it – he’s not gonna say he _expected_ it, but it might have been _nice_ – then he’s sorely disappointed. Instead of a whispered word on the back bench of the van, Pete rushed to take the place of navigator next to Andy in the front seat leaving Patrick with Joe and endless debate about _Licensed to Ill._ Okay, he sort of liked the debate but that’s not the fucking point and Pete knows it.

If he thought the apology might come once they got home, once they had some time alone, then reality dealt him another crushing dose of disappointment as Pete went out of his way to avoid being alone with Patrick at any and all costs. It’s been a week since he climbed out of the van at the bottom of his driveway and swung his duffel bag onto his shoulder without so much as a grunt from his boyfriend. A week and Pete has barely looked at him during practice, darting away to his – fucking ridiculous – Edsel before Patrick can try to speak to him.

Today – apparently – is different.

Today, Pete is still sprawled on the couch in Patrick’s basement, can of Mountain Dew cradled in his hands as he watches The A Team with concentrated interest. Patrick isn’t really sure what to do; instinct suggests now might be the time to have a Serious Conversation. But mostly, he still wants to take a swing at that stubbled jaw, to feel his knuckles smash into those shiny, white teeth until Pete is spitting crimson and bone. Instead of taking drastic action, he draws his knees against his chest and huddles into the corner of the couch, pretending to watch the adventure unfold on the screen whilst silently tracking every breath Pete takes.

“You gonna come sit with me?” Pete asks, swinging skinny legs to the side to make room. Patrick shakes his head. “Come on, Baby P, don’t be mad at me, I – ”

“Don’t be mad at you?” Patrick repeats with a sharp bark of incredulous laughter. “Don’t be fucking _mad_ at you? _Mad_ is what my mom gets when I don’t wipe my feet at the front door. _Mad_ is my geography teacher when I turn in shitty homework. You… You don’t fucking _get_ it, do you? You fucking _cheated_ on me, I fucking _hate_ you right now, asshole.”

Pete doesn’t say anything right away and that starts to piss Patrick off, anger tightening his chest and driving his nails into the soft flesh of his palms. He just stares at Patrick from those eyes that glow green and gold in the light of the TV, just sits and stares and looks sad, a soft frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. Patrick keeps his eyes on the screen – he’s seen this one five times before, but the same could be said for Pete’s pensive puppy dog eyes – and waits for a response.

“You want me to say I’m sorry, P?” He asks and Patrick snorts, hard and mirthless in the back of his nose. It’s an ugly noise for an ugly emotion. “You want me to tell you it shouldn’t have happened? You’re a smart kid, you know that’s the truth, what difference will it make if I say it? Will it mean it didn’t happen?”

“You’re a dumb motherfucker,” Patrick hisses, fury burning a hole in his chest as he digs his fingers sharply into the foam of the couch cushion. “You fucking… If I hadn’t shown up when I did, then what? Would you have fucked her, Pete? Shoved your cock down her throat to prove a point? Fuck you, asshole, I can do better than some… some closeted, _scared_ little prick. Take your self-righteous fucking _straightness_ ,” and Patrick throws vicious and sarcastic air quotes around the word, “and shove it right up your ass. The same ass that’s taken my fucking dick, faggot.”

“Fuck you,” Pete snarls, a glow of stoked fire in his eyes. “You think you know it all, P, but you don’t know fucking _shit_. You think we live in some fucking utopia where nothing bad happens to queer dudes? You just – ”

“Get away from me,” Patrick shouts. “Get out of my house and just leave me the fuck alone, dickweed.”

 _Somehow_ , he’s on his feet and four feet from where he started. _Somehow,_ he has a handful of Pete’s suspenders in each hand, a reflection of that first night in VOID but reversed as he looms over Pete on the couch. _Somehow_ , his face is very close to Pete’s, blue eyes boring into gold and lips twisted into a snarl as he tries to haul him to his feet, intent on dragging him to the front door and tossing his useless ass onto the street.

 _Somehow_ , Pete’s lips crash into his.

Rage, Patrick quickly discovers, is alarmingly close to arousal. His cock springs hard in his jeans as Pete drags them together hard enough for teeth to clash, hard enough that the salted copper taste of blood is sharp on his tongue from errant teeth. He growls a curse against lips that feel like home as a rough hand curls around the back of his neck and knocks him off balance, sends him down with his knees braced to the edge of the couch between Pete’s spread legs. Pete’s face is in his hands, stubble scrubbing rough-sharp against his palms as he licks into Pete’s mouth like it’s home. Pete tastes of soda and cigarettes, feels warm and soft and inviting as he hauls Patrick closer, kicks out his legs until he’s sprawled across him. Patrick ruts desperately against the narrow jut of a hip bone, aching for friction and contact.

Every sensible part of his brain screams at him to stop because – believe it or not – he isn’t even half as stupid as he looks and he knows a distraction when it’s pressed to his big, dumb dick. Unfortunately, hormones dictate that this part of his brain is quickly overruled by the part currently routing blood to aforementioned big, dumb dick. It’s been over a week and he aches with the throb of his pulse, scrabbles for his zipper and shoves Pete’s hand around him with a ragged groan. He comes embarrassingly fast, four or five rough strokes of his length and he’s shooting hot and thick against the golden skin exposed by Pete’s ridden up shirt. He muffles his cry in teeth pressed to the column of Pete’s throat, teeth sinking crimson crescents into smooth skin as Pete hisses a curse into his ear.

He comes down through stuttered breaths and a racing heartbeat, flops to his back on the couch with a sigh and stares up at the ceiling with a sinking sort of feeling in his stomach. So much for telling Pete how it is. So much for holding his own and not behaving like a stupid fucking kid. Pete rubs at the come streaking his skin with his shirt, smudging the underside of the dark cotton with stripes of white. He wipes and he grins at Patrick like he won. Patrick supposes he did.

“Fuck you,” he whispers, skin painted blush bright with shame. “Just… fuck you.”

Patrick knows he shouldn’t – he _knows_ , okay? – but a nagging voice reminds him that turnabout is fair play so he reaches for Pete’s zipper, easing it down with a cautious glance at his Casio. He has at least thirty minutes before his mom gets back from yoga. It’s fine. Pete shifts, hips raised, as Patrick pulls down his shorts and reveals the half-hard curve of his cock. He could ride him, he thinks with a bolt of excitement in his belly and a twitch in his dick, he could slip astride him and sink down onto him and…

He pauses to slide a hand around the satin-smooth length of Pete’s prick, to pump his fist along the length of him a few times and coax him hard. Pete groans, arm thrown over his eyes as his hips arch up toward Patrick’s hand but nothing really happens. He’s still mostly soft in Patrick’s palm, even as he strokes harder and faster, even when he shuffles down the couch and sucks him in frustrated desperation. The meds, he tries to remind himself, it’s just the lithium fucking with Pete’s junk.

But what if it’s not?

What if it’s because he’s not _her?_ Not smooth and soft in all of the right places, not softly scented with girl, with a warm, wet pussy to sink into. That can’t happen. Pete needs to come. He needs to fuck Patrick, needs to get off with _Patrick._ He sucks harder, forces two fingers – too dry, too rough, too fast, he _knows_ – into Pete. Pete shouts but not in pleasure, twisting away with a yelp.

“Patrick!” He gasps, shoving him away. “Fucking knock it off!”

Patrick stops. He scrambles back to where he sat five minutes previously, pressed into the corner of the couch with his knees drawn up, cock still hanging out of his shorts as he hugs his knees to his chest and stares at Pete from eyes wide and wild. Pete stares back, hissing as he delicately touches the tips of his fingers to his hole, raising them streaked with crimson. Something cold and crawling eases its way down Patrick’s spine, robes him in ice as he closes his eyes and concentrates everything on just wishing himself someplace else. Someplace Pete _isn’t._

“It’s not my fault, asshole,” Pete spits. He means his limp cock; the dick Patrick can’t coax up. “It’s not my fucking _fault.”_

“No, it’s mine,” Patrick stares at his shoes. “I’m not _her_ or any of the others with tits. You blame the meds but this happens every time you get some ass. You don’t like guys, you don’t like _me,_ why don’t we just… forget about this. Go find a new singer.”

“That’s not true,” Pete insists as he adjusts his pants with a wince. “It’s not fucking _true_ , P. I just… I have a lot going on and – ”

“Oh, fucking _spare_ me,” Patrick rolls his eyes. “You think you’re the only hotshot with shit to do? You’re a college dropout with a shitty band, what has you all tied up? Huh? You’re so full of fucking shit, Wentz, I swear to God, I – ”

“Mikey’s positive, okay?” Pete roars – Patrick’s never heard someone roar before – like a wounded animal, pain and anger etched sharp on each feature. Patrick falls slack against the couch, confused. “Mikey’s fucking positive!”

All Patrick can think to ask is who the fuck is Mikey and what, exactly, is he positive about but he doesn’t, he just sits back against the couch and hugs his knees to his chest, stares at Pete from wide eyes as he waits for something, anything. They sit in silence, Pete breathing hard and curled in on himself, tightly coiled like the world is closing in on him as he gasps hard breaths into a throw pillow, hands pressed to his ears like he wants to block everything out. Cautiously Patrick stretches out his hand, brushes his fingertips against the back of Pete’s neck and flinches back as Pete swats at him irritably.

“Pete?” He begins softly, because now he’s thinking about it – now he’s _really_ thinking about it – it’s starting to make a horrible sort of sense. A kid, about Pete’s age, interrupted in moments like the ones he shares with Patrick. Pete tearing down the world around him, smashing up the room, knuckles raw with blood and fury. Mikey. “Pete, who’s Mikey?”

Pete’s back shakes with shuddering sobs and Patrick pauses, unsure. He’s never seen Pete cry, never seen him express anything other than cocky self-certainty or thinly-concealed rage. He’s seen lust and want and occasional moments of tenderness. But he’s never seen him cry. He’s not sure what to do, hovers with useless hands as he shifts to wrap an arm around him, thinks better of it and pauses. No one has ever told him how to deal with this, what to do, what to say, he settles for awkwardly stroking at Pete’s shoulder as he trembles against the couch. He hushes meaningless platitudes, murmurs _it’s okay_ and _let it all out_ and _that’s it_ like it actually helps, like it makes any difference.

“Pete?” He prompts as the sobs slow, as Pete hiccups into the pillow he’s curled around. “Come on, man, talk to me.”

For a moment he thinks Pete’s going to refuse, there’s tension coiled sharp across the soft gold of his shoulders and a breath held hot and sour in his lungs as he waits – waits endlessly – for Pete to respond. When he does, when he finally begins to speak, his voice is different. There’s none of his usual razor-sharp arrogance, the cocky self-assured shell broken and cracked as he whispers in a voice that falters and shakes.

“Mikey was… We used to…” He seems to be struggling, rakes a hand through the mess of his hair and chews at his lip before continuing. “We were together. Sort of. Like me and you, you know?”

Together. They were _together_. Will he make the same soft admission in months or years to come to the next boy? The one that replaces Patrick, forced to hide in the shadows of hidden kisses and secret touches? What does it matter? Pete still won’t move, still has his knees clutched up to his chest as he shudders.

“I… We broke up.” Pete says it like Patrick doesn’t know the truth, like he hasn’t heard the tale from Andy who watched it all burn down. Patrick stays silent. “I just… He’s _positive_ , Patrick, worse than that, he… It’s AIDS and… and he’s _dying,_ man. He’s twenty-one and he’s fucking _dying._ I just… I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to _do!”_

Something stings in Patrick’s chest, a cold spread of pain as Pete finally – _finally_ – rolls to face him, buries his face in Patrick’s neck as he starts to sob once more. He wraps his arms around him, holds him close and murmurs assurances that everything will be fine as a nasty, icy thought takes hold. He tries to push it away, he reminds himself now isn’t the time and yet the question tumbles from him unbidden.

“Did you use condoms?” He asks urgently, Pete huffs a hot breath against his skin, a grinding sigh of _not right now_ but how can Patrick ignore it? “Pete, fuck, _did you use fucking condoms?”_

“I can’t believe you’re doing this right now,” somehow Pete is on his feet, pacing the floor as Patrick scrambles to follow him, tripping off the edge of the couch and winding needing fingers around a wrist decked with leather and studs. “You’re un-fucking-believable, Patrick, you know that? A real fucking piece of work, you – ”

“Fuck you!” Patrick’s tenuous hold on his temper gives, snaps, breaks apart into shredded threads as he slams Pete into the wall, as he grabs at him with desperate hands. “Pete, you fucked him and he’s got AIDS and you fucked _me_ . You… you fucking _owe_ me the truth. _Condoms?_ Yes or fucking _no?”_

Pete stares at him, stares _through_ him, lips curled into a grotesque impersonation of a smirk, ugly and twisted and driving something into Patrick’s heart as he sneers, “What do _you_ think, _Baby P?”_

Patrick can feel something itching in his veins, something poisonous and hot that he wants to claw out, wants to open his wrists as if he could drain it away like so much snake venom. Posters and pamphlets and PSAs flash before his eyes, warnings and coffins and emaciated men hooked up on IVs with eyes that already look dead. He wants to scream and accuse, to throw his fist into Pete’s face but all he can do is shake his head, wide-eyed and weak and sick to his stomach.

He didn’t know, he tries to remind himself of this as he staggers back to slump against the wall. Pete’s only just found out and it’s not like he’s made a conscious decision to expose Patrick to anything. But he could at least try to look sorry. Why is he never _sorry_ for anything? The silence wraps around them, cold and uncomfortable, stinging Patrick’s eyes and making his chest heave – there’s not enough oxygen in the room to sustain both of them but Pete has collapsed to the bottom step and he can’t… won’t…

“It’s been four years,” Pete whispers eventually, suddenly uncertain, his fingers lacing and unlacing between his thighs as he stares at the swirl of the carpet between his feet. “I mean… I’d have some symptoms, right? Yeah. No, it’s got to be fine because… I mean, I’m _okay_ , right?”

Patrick isn’t a doctor. Patrick can just recall the smiling face of a pretty girl with permed hair and a movie star gloss to her eyes. _She shows all the signs of having HIV._ There _are_ no signs, that’s the whole fucking _point._ Nothing until it’s too late. That itch still scrapes through his bloodstream, still begs to be released as panic tightens his throat. He needs to get tested. He _can’t_. He doubles over, presses the heels of his hands hard into his eyes and tries to concentrate on breathing, tries to recite the facts to himself in a way that doesn’t make his head swim.

Pete has come on his skin countless times, the bitter-salt smear of it shining like pearl against Patrick’s pale skin. That’s okay. He’s pretty sure that’s safe.

Pete has come in his mouth just as often, thrust his hips to Patrick’s throat and groaned out his orgasm into the willing pull of Patrick’s eager lips. Patrick can recall the burn of it sharp against a freshly split lip, the way it slicked and stung. That’s… Not good.

Pete has fucked him bareback. Grasped at his hips with ravening greed and released deep inside of Patrick, the burning flood of a potential death sentence sweeping into him, oozing slick against his underwear as he sat on a curb in Evanston and waited for Will’s dad.

Patrick is _fucked._ Literally, metaphorically and twelve ways from Sunday. He remembers reading somewhere about the five stages of grief and wonders with an absent level of detachment if it’s possible to cycle through all five on a never-ending five-minute loop. Right now, it’s anger, it boils through him and heats his lungs until each breath feels like drowning in fire as he blinks away the sting of tears.

“I told you to use a fucking _condom,”_ Patrick spits, aching with furious rage. “I fucking _begged_ you to use a condom!”

Pete won’t look at him, won’t look anywhere but the floor between his feet as he ignores every word Patrick says, mutters over and over that he doesn’t have any symptoms, that Mikey must have been infected _after_ he and Pete were together. He whispers that he’s fine in a way that, under any other circumstances, would break Patrick’s heart, would have him _rushing_ to comfort him and reassure him that everything’s going to be fine.

He swears he can still feel the trickle of Pete’s come between his cheeks, burning him raw.

“Get out,” he whispers when enough time has passed for sensible thought to return to him once again. “Get out of my fucking house.”

“Baby P,” Pete’s voice is barely a breath of noise that crackles between them as he finally – fucking _finally_ – raises his eyes to Patrick’s. There’s fear there. Fear and need and aching sadness caught in a glance and for the first time ever Patrick doesn’t give a fuck.

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick says, voice dull. “I’m not your fucking _Baby P._ I’m _Patrick_ . And to you? I’m fucking _nothing_. You don’t call me, don’t speak to me in the street, don’t look at me. You don’t even fucking _think about me._ Get the fuck out of my fucking house, asshole.”

“P – Patrick,” he tries again desperately, staggering to his feet and tripping across the room with desperation radiating from him like heat. Like disease. He reaches out, intent on touching Patrick’s face or his shoulder, intent on ignoring what he’s been told, on riding roughshod over Patrick’s wishes _again. “Please –_ ”

He staggers back as Patrick’s fist snaps up to connect with his face. Pain explodes through his knuckles – why does no one ever talk about how much punching bone _hurts?_ – as they connect with the cartilage and bone of Pete’s nose. There’s give under his fist, the snap of skin and blood vessels and the wet slick of crimson heat coating Pete’s face, shining against Patrick’s knuckles. Pete stumbles a step, thumps into the wall with his shoulder and the hurt spring of shock-wide eyes. He touches his nose with testing fingertips, winces and licks away the flood that coats his lips. He doesn’t hit back, free hand loose and useless at his side as Patrick curses himself for opening himself up to infection _again_ then wondering why the fuck he cares when so many opportunities have fallen beforehand.

“Don’t fucking speak to me,” Patrick repeats, heart hammering against his ribs as he scrubs the blood from his knuckles into the thigh of his jeans, red lost to black. “Get the fuck out. I need… I need to think. About a lot of things.”

For the first time in the months since Patrick met him, Pete doesn’t have anything to say. He nods slowly, scraping streaks of crimson up his forearm to match the ones on his fingertips. Both of them blood drawn by Patrick’s hands. This isn’t love, it’s not what love is supposed to be, he might be a naïve kid, but he knows that much at least. Love isn’t fear and shame and hiding in dark corners, afraid of what the assholes might think. Patrick would face the firing squad for Pete, would stand with him shoulder and shoulder and declare what he is to the world if Pete would just give him half an inch. He aches for him to turn, to throw his arms around Patrick and declare them a _thing_ , not a half-hidden suggestion.

But he’s not surprised when Pete turns and climbs up the stairs with feet that drag and shoulders rounded defensively. Pete’s a fucking pussy.

As soon as he hears the front door click closed – in honesty he anticipated a slam that would shake the windows – he lunges for the phone with shaking hands, tapping in the number that he knows by wrote but hasn’t really dialled in months.

“M-Mrs Beckett?” He stammers, tears thick in his throat as she answers on the third ring. “Is Will home?”

~*~

“A month,” Will mutters as Patrick stands, awkward and uncomfortable just inside Will’s bedroom door. It still looks the same though it feels like a lifetime since he last stood here, it still has the same tacky poster on the wall of the girl in the tennis skirt, still smells faintly of old gym socks and cheap cologne. It still feels like home. “It’s been a fucking _month_ since you last spoke to me outside of school. What the fuck do you want, Patrick?”

Patrick knows – seriously, he _knows_ – that he’s a shitty friend. Fair weather friend, that’s what they’ll carve on his headstone when he inevitably dies of AIDS thanks to fucking _Pete_. He knows he has no right whatsoever to keep turning to Will to gather up the shattered fragments of his self esteem when Pete grinds them to dust. Yet here he is, once again, tears glassy in his eyes as he swallows hard around the lump in his throat, pushes his toe into the carpet and tries to think of something – anything – that he can say to make everything right.

“I fucked up,” it comes out as a rough croak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Fuck, Will, I’ve fucked up so badly. I… I don’t know what to do, man.”

“You fuck up a lot since you met _him,”_ there’s a sneer twisting Will’s lips as he slumps back onto his bed. “Ever think maybe there’s a common denominator in your never-ending stream of fuck ups? Or is it just you? Hmm? I mean, _he_ doesn’t owe me shit but _you_ , you’re supposed to be my best fucking friend, man. Where the fuck have you been?”

Patrick sniffs, hard, and tries to blink back the tears before they roll hot and wet and messy down his cheeks. It’s no good, the sob bubbles out of him unbidden and though he tries to hide it in an awkward cough it’s too late, Will has struggled up onto his elbows to frown at him.

“Patrick?” He asks, soft and tender and that’s enough. Enough for the dam wall to break and the trickle to turn to a flood as Patrick buries his face in his hands and sobs. “Oh fuck, Patrick, man. C’mon, don’t – don’t fucking _cry_ , please, I – I didn’t mean to be an asshole, just… Don’t fucking _cry_ …”

Arms wrap around him, protective and warm, everything he wants Pete to be. There’s the smell of Will, of sleepovers and birthday parties and nights they swore they didn’t give a fuck that no one at school liked them because they had each other and that was all that mattered. Patrick keeps fucking up, keeps kicking Will away and yet he welcomes him back each time without question and only the smallest amount of shit.

Will doesn’t deserve to be treated this way and Patrick sure as shit doesn’t deserve his forgiveness.

It takes a six pack of Diet Coke and an extra-large pizza from Mario’s with extra sausage, no olives, before Patrick finds the courage to open up to Will. An hour of awkward small talk about school, about homework Patrick hasn’t done and girls that haven’t noticed Will until he finds the words.

“So, you remember that poster? In the locker room?” He asks, cramming in another mouthful of pizza as Will frowns in concentration then nods slowly. “You… You asked me if I made Pete use a condom.”

“Right,” Will shrugs, stealing a piece of sausage from Patrick’s slice, chewing absently and Patrick watches realisation dawning with all the gradual glow of sunrise. “Oh… Oh, _shit_ , `Trick. Did – did he… Not?”

“No,” Patrick shakes his head, that wobble back in his voice, the ache springing up sharp at the back of his throat as he tries to concentrate on chewing and staring at Tennis Chick’s ass. “He didn’t.”

“Fuck,” Will, like Patrick, believes everything on those posters because why wouldn’t they? But he’s got enough distance to say the kind of things Patrick wants to hear, soft reassurance as he scratches his neck and continues in a rush. “I mean, it’s probably _fine_ , right? He… Not _every_ gay dude has AIDS, you know? It’s probably gonna be – ”

“His ex-boyfriend has it. AIDS, I mean,” Patrick cuts in quietly. The silence that falls echoes with something powerful as Will’s eyes widen and he reaches quickly for Patrick’s hand, hesitating for just a moment before they touch but – and Patrick can’t say how thankful he is for it – shoving any fear to the side to grasp his fingers. For a long few minutes they don’t say anything, don’t really move until Patrick has to speak, has to add noise to the room. “So… There’s that.”

There’s a silence - cold and slightly awkward between them - the room scored to the sound of Patrick’s wet, snuffling breaths heaved into air that seems too still. The quiet rings in his ears as Will presses reassurance into his fingers, as he tries to speak without speaking because they don’t know, they’ve never needed the words that they need right now. He glances across; Will looks so very young and Patrick feels so very _old_ next to him, aged and deadened by the events of the past few months.

“That doesn’t mean _he_ does,” Will reasons and Patrick wants to hug him, to lean into the lanky warmth of him, but he’s not sure they’re there again just yet. “Doesn’t mean you do, either. Are you gonna get tested? And, like, have – I mean, did you guys break up?”

Did they? Patrick’s not sure but he flexes his stinging knuckles as he recalls eyes that glowed like gilded hazel staring at him around blood and confusion. Patrick knows that Pete is the worst thing to happen to him, the coil of black rope around his chest that binds him tight. Falsified security. Play pretend normality.

He can still see the dead eyes of the man on the poster.

His veins still itch and burn with something bitter and hot.

“I don’t know,” he admits softly, not sure if he can walk away. Then again, he supposes it probably doesn’t really matter, Pete’s probably found someone else to warm his bed by now. Patrick imagines a web of infection spreading through the northern suburbs, the touch of hands kissed by poison.  “I… Sometimes I think I hate him, then I don’t know how I can breathe without him in the room. You know?”

Will nods. He doesn’t know. Patrick knows he doesn’t. He draws his knees up against his chest and slings his arms around them, gazes out of the window like it can provide the answers. All it does is reflect the two boys - the two _kids_ \- surrounded by posters and pizza and mementos of childhood. Patrick is once again overwhelmed by tears, face buried in his hands as sobs hiccup from him, wet and messy, burning salt painting his hands. Will is made of gentle reassurance, hand against his shoulder and declarations that it’s going to be fine hushed soft into Patrick’s ear.

Patrick is too young to die, of that he is unshakably certain. He’s seventeen, there are things he imagined doing, places he wanted to see and experiences he always imagined he’d have.

“Tell me something happy, man,” he whispers, tears blurring his vision and fogging his glasses a little as he stutters to a stop and rests his head against the edge of the mattress.

“Happy?” Will looks speculative for a moment, takes a long sip of his soda before breaking into a softly shy grin, feathered hair falling into his face as he smiles proud and glowing at the pizza box between them. “I – I sort of have a girlfriend…”

“Dude!” Patrick squeezes the hand caught in his own with a smile – the first genuine one to cross his lips in what feels like _weeks_ – heart light with pride. “That’s fucking awesome! Do I know her?”

“Sarah, you know? From chem class?” Patrick nods eagerly. She’s pretty in a dorky sort of way, perfect for Will. “She… uh… she sucked my dick behind the gym last week. I – I really like her.”

Of course he does. Patrick nudges him with a playful shoulder, makes a quip about maybe Will understands now and they laugh. They laugh until they’re leaning back against the rug and Patrick’s stomach hurts with it.

Will is almost enough to make him forget, to take him back to the months before when it was just the two of them and terrible hair and mom-bought clothes and a high school indifferent to their existence. Before Pete slammed into his world and dragged him to something different, something _exciting,_ the edge of a cliff that they stood and stared over together with fingers laced and hearts hammering a beat more wild than anything Andy could come up with. But maybe, if he doesn’t think about Pete, doesn’t think about a dude he doesn’t know lying dying in a hospital bed, then it isn’t real. It didn’t happen, nothing’s changed and Patrick is safe.

Will’s probably right, after all, not _every_ gay dude has AIDS, not _everyone_ gets infected. Patrick will probably get lucky. It’s not like Pete has any symptoms and Mikey is already dying. Yeah - he shrugs it out mentally - yeah, everything is _probably_ fine.

Patrick is still thoroughly convinced that he loves Pete. He’s just starting to question if that can possibly be _enough_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're into the crux of the matter...
> 
> Hope you're enjoying it! If you are, kudos and comments are always so appreciated!
> 
> I hope you're all having a fantastic week! The punks will be back next Wednesday, I swear!


	11. You know, there's going to be sex, drugs, rock-n-roll…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pete is somewhat less of a dick...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Happy new year - here's to a wonderful 2018. The chapter title this week is from Weird Science, as always, a recommended watch from the 80s. 
> 
> Thanks again to laudanum_cafe for reading through this for me, always appreciated!

Patrick has been staring down at the poster on his bed for the best part of an hour. It was a smash and grab job – less likely to be caught yanking the damn thing from the wall than squinting at it with a notebook and pencil clutched in his hands – the page crumpled and creased from being shoved into the pocket of his pants all day.

_AIDS – GET THE FACTS_ , the poster declares in bold print cited above an image of a neat line of headstones, but that’s not what caught Patrick’s attention. Beneath it, hidden at the bottom like an afterthought, is a phone number. A hotline he can call to… speak to someone? Hear an automated message telling him everything he’s already read on posters and pamphlets? He really isn’t sure. His hands tremble against his hamburger phone, caught between the will to call and get some advice and the fear of someone finding out, of his mom picking up the other line, of his sister accidentally hitting redial. He could call from a pay phone but that’s even more terrifying; what if someone he knows overhears? His palms prickle with nervous sweat, sticky and hot, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him.

Patrick’s not an idiot – he’s _not_ , okay? – and he doesn’t have a death wish. But it’s so fucking _hard_ to get information that suits his circumstances and what is he going to do? Go have a chat with the school nurse? The counsellor? Any of the other adults he’s supposed to trust that would immediately run to his mom? He’s not ready for that conversation, he doesn’t know how to sit her down and ask if their health insurance covers STD tests because then he’ll have to explain _why_ he needs an STD test. No. This is better, for everyone involved, he just needs to lower his pulse from the way it’s thudding with intent against his ear drums so hard his head is ringing with it.

No, he’s being ridiculous, it’s just a goddamn 800 number, it’s not like it can _bite_ him. He grits his teeth as resolve settles in his chest and he punches in the number before he can change his mind. It rings three times then clicks, an automated voice asking him to hold and that his call is important, lost to tinny renditions of shitty 70s disco tracks. This is horseshit, he doesn’t have all day to sit staring at the wall and hoping someone will pick up the damn phone. Nerves and fear and creeping, suffocating _panic_ close in on him with each synthetic note that scrapes his nerves raw. He bites his lip and closes his eyes, forces himself to just… keep… breathing…

He makes it to the second chorus of _I Will Survive_ before hanging up with a snarl that rages out of him like a curse, slamming the phone across the room to bounce against the wall with an unsatisfying thud, “Mother _fucker!”_

His eyes sting and burn with tears, his throat tight and hot as he drags his knees against his chest and presses his face into his folded arms. He cries wet, messy tears that sting and fog his glasses because this isn’t fair, it isn’t _right_ that this is something he even has to think about. He wants to go back, to talking shit with Will about the pussy they couldn’t get and the things they were going to do together, how they’d take over the world.

Someone else swore to take over the world with him. Promises breathed from lips swollen and damp as a calloused hand traced his skin in ways that seemed impossibly new and exciting. If he closes his eyes he can remember each detail, the way the clipped-short hair at the side of Pete’s head felt under his fingers, the way the moonlight had added lustre to his ink-stained skin. He can recall the taste of Pete’s tongue, the way muscles flexed under skin like warm satin. He can conjure up a smirk that glowed bright in the darkness and dared Patrick to just reach out a hand and take a chance on something unknown.

Wonderful choice he made there. Really, just fucking gorgeous.

It hurts that Pete hasn’t called. He’s alone and he’s… he’s fucking _scared_ , okay, and Pete hasn’t called. The person responsible for dragging him into the situation – because Patrick won’t acknowledge his own part in the whole sorry story – has turned tail and run scared. And yes, okay, Patrick told him to go – he _gets_ that, he _understands_ – but it burns him raw that Pete took him at his word. How hard would it be for him to stand tall and fight for something he cares about? Pete Wentz is a fucking coward.

It stings him raw that he just looks through him at practice – yeah, Patrick would rather avoid him entirely but Joe is a tenacious son of a bitch – like he doesn’t matter, just an inconsequential kid with a crush. He doesn’t love him anymore, he’s sure of it, the emotion that burns through his blood is too bitter, too painful to be anything other than hatred, to invoke anything more than clenched fists and a bitten tongue.

But it still hurts.

It’s still hurting when Joe swings the van to the curb and lets out a cacophony of jarring blasts of the horn, hanging out of the window and drumming in time to the song blasting on the radio. Patrick thinks it might be Metallica but he’s not sure from this distance, swinging his guitar case onto his shoulder and jogging from the house with a call of goodbye to his mom. Joe greets him with a smile like Patrick remembers, a smile that’s bright and warm and _meant_ , not like the twisted grimace of pretend-we’re-normal that he’ll get from Pete, nothing like the sympathetic I-understand-please-don’t-be-sad Andy will offer. He returns it, wide and shining and heartfelt, because it’s nice to be normal for a few minutes, distracting not to have to think about something infectious crawling through his veins and killing him slowly.  He doesn’t even object to the friendly punch thumped into his shoulder, just leans back in the seat and cranks the radio a little louder.

He’s probably fine, he reminds himself, not every gay dude has AIDS, not everyone passes it on and Pete doesn’t look sick. He’s probably okay.

Almost definitely.

He’s _fine_.  

He’s fine until the moment he steps into the basement at Pete’s place. He’s okay until the he sees him, leaning against an amp with his back to the door, his muscle tank draped over his frame like a fucking love song. He’s alright until Pete turns and their eyes catch and a conversation that no one hears crackles between them, a look weighted with _you don’t get it_ and _you’re just a stupid fucking kid._

He’s fine until he’s not.

He’s fine until the air suddenly becomes a little too hot, a touch too thick to draw into his lungs comfortably. It’s like the unfurling of an asthma attack, stretching and flexing powerful, dark torment through his chest but it can’t be relieved with his inhaler. It’s a hand grasping tight around his heart and squeezing ice cold shards of agony through his rib cage until he’s close to hissing with the pain of it. Pete’s nose is still bruised, the glow of it fading and dimming in the week or so since Patrick punched him, since he felt the hot, wet slick of blood against the back of his hand – dangerous, infectious, _poisonous_. Pete runs his own knuckles over the bridge of it gently like a taunt, eyes burning hot as coal into Patrick as he sneers an insincere greeting.

He wants to hit him again almost as badly as he wants to kiss him. He wants to shove him against the wall and scream until his lungs burn and his throat bleeds about all of the ways Pete has fucked him over. He wants to drag him to the couch and sink into him until it doesn’t matter and the hurting throb of his heart corrects, stabilises, rebalances to something else.

Instead, he shoulders his guitar, straightens his mic stand and demands of the room, “Are we practicing or goofing off?”

It’s easier when there’s sound, when there’s _music_ , the thrumming thrash of guitars and the throb of Andy’s drums to replace his heartbeat and send him soaring and weightless. Music has always been the solution and now is no different when he can pour the hurt and heartache into each lyric fired like bullets down the gun of his mic to thud with unerring precision into Pete. In theory. In reality Pete plays like Patrick’s not even there, like he’s any singer, an everyman to fill the gap in his line up on his pre-planned route to fame.

He shoves the thought aside and hammers his anger into the frets, chokes out his fury into lyrics filled with pain. Pete is a poet and his lyrics slip around them like so much teenage hurt, enveloping them in it until it feels like they’re bound together by it, Joe and Andy circling somewhere just outside, somewhere free from the full extent of the anger and rage that seem to fuel them.

There’s none of their usual camaraderie; it’s been missing since a fight in the quiet of a basement, two boys expressing their rage with shouting and fists. There’s no nudge of a shoulder into his as Pete plays, no grin fired across the area they’ve marked on the floor as a stage. There’s nothing. They’re nothing. _He’s_ nothing.

The truth doesn’t stop his heart from pounding a messy thrum against his ribs when they take a break and Pete lands his ass next to him on the couch with a bottle of water and a grimace that Patrick thinks is supposed to be a smile, “Got you a drink.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, because there’s not much else to say. He unscrews the cap of the bottle, takes a swig, it’s warm and slightly metallic and not as satisfying as it could be. His life in a nutshell. Pete doesn’t move from the couch, just stares at him from eyes that glow copper and gold like summer lake water. “Can I help you with some – ”

If anything, the next emotion that runs through Patrick is irritation; annoyance that Pete stole the moment he was about to say something cutting, when he was about to snap out the words that would let him know how much of a dick he truly is. It’s chased away by a dawning sense of fascinated amazement because the thing that stole his words, that yanked the moment of glory from under his feet, is the plush softness of Pete’s lips closing over his. It isn’t a tap of a peck either, it’s warm and deep and accompanied by a hand twisted with searing possession into Patrick’s hair. It’s a soft tongue pressing past his lips to tease against the roof of his mouth in the way that Patrick loves. It’s a hand pressed sweetly to his cheek to stroke tenderness from calloused fingers. It’s Joe’s stuttered _what the fuck,_ somewhere behind them and Andy’s _c’mon guys, seriously_ from by the drum kit.

It’s Pete drawing back to rest his forehead against Patrick’s, the jet dark strands of his un-styled mohawk twisting like vines with the gold of Patrick’s bangs. It’s a moment shared between the two of them with bated breath and eyes that meet like they haven’t before and then Pete smiles, a grin that gilds him golden as he looks up all bright teeth and easy charm.

“Okay, that was weird,” Joe gapes at them, mouth a little slack, cheeks a little flushed. “Did the two of you just… suck face?”

“I don’t need to keep seeing this shit,” Andy grouses to his snare from behind his kit. “I don’t need a fucking floor show.”

“You _knew?”_ Joe asks, voice high and eyes still on Patrick, his back pressed to the wall like he’s concerned someone’s going to force him into joining in. “Wait, why didn’t I know? Am I – is it only _me_ that doesn’t know? Not fucking cool.”

Pete’s fingers are laced with Patrick’s, wound close and tight as he smiles his very brightest smile, like Patrick lights his world from the inside. Patrick stammers around the blush that burns him crimson and wants to hide, just wants to curl in on himself where no one can stare at him. He didn’t prepare for this, didn’t take the moment to breathe and plan a speech in the moment Pete stole the air from between them and now, with the solid weight of a tattooed arm draped around his shoulders all he can do is stammer riddles and nonsense down at his knees.

“Look, we’re together,” Pete shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like he isn’t giving Patrick everything he asked for whilst simultaneously ignoring everything he yelled at him in his basement. Pete riding roughshod with grand gestures that no one asked for but are needed nonetheless. “Let’s not make some huge fucking deal out of it. It’s been going on since the start so it’s not… It won’t affect the band. It won’t.”

“You… You guys are homos?” Joe looks thoroughly confused. Pete flares with rage and stiffens in his seat.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he snarls, the smile falling from his face and wide-eyed contrition flooding Joe’s. “You call me that again and I’ll… Two hits, man. Me hitting you, you hitting the goddamn floor. You relate?”

Patrick wishes Pete wouldn’t quote The Breakfast Club quite as much as he does.

“Take a chill pill, dude,” Joe holds his hands up. “I didn’t mean… Just… I did _not_ see this coming. It’s… whatever, man, it’s your dick. You put it wherever you want, it’s cool.”

“I’m not gay,” Pete tells Joe like he’s convincing himself and Patrick sparks with irritation. He’s going to labour the point even now? Insist that he’s not one of those fags because he likes pussy too? Does it fucking _matter_ when he spends his nights sucking Patrick’s cock? Joe shrugs, palms flat and eyes brimmed blue and contrite.

They move on, practice picks back up with a brush of Pete’s fingers against the small of his back. Patrick isn’t sure this is a good idea, but when is anything involving Pete ever a sound decision? When Pete declares they’re as good as they’re going to get, it’s novel to collapse down onto the couch and under the weight of his arm once more. Joe still stares, Andy still rolls his eyes but it’s… something. He knows he’s being blackmailed – he’s not as stupid as he looks, he swears he isn’t – but it eases the ache of not-quite-good-enough that lingers in his chest.

That ache gives way to a tingle of excitement as Pete leans forward with eyes that glow hot and fired and whispers like he knows a secret, “So, you know we talked about sending out the demo?”

They did talk about it. They talked about it as a group, as a _band_ , and yet it would appear that, once again, Pete went off and did his own thing. Patrick should feel irritated, but he’s still buzzing with the elation of acknowledgement so he simply rolls his eyes as Pete holds court amongst the four of them. He just smiles affectionately as Pete waxes lyrical about various punk labels and sifting through them to find the one that would be the perfect fit. Joe is nodding eagerly, forearms braced against his knees as he leans forward, for all the world as though he’s trying to absorb Pete’s imperious command of imagery as he paints a tale with pretty words. It’s all theatre, all masterful puppetry designed to enthral his audience and have them twirling in beautiful orbit around him, twisting like celestial bodies caught in his gravity so they can lean closer to hear him murmur his point.

“So, after _that_ little shit show, I got the call,” he pauses dramatically, all flair and frills as he clears his throat, pauses a beat to hold the captivation of his audience laid out before him then continues. “SST. Fucking _SST_.”

Joe looks close to passing out, face drained pale as his mouth opens and closes silently. Patrick can feel the frantic throb of his pulse in his veins as he stares at Pete in silent amazement. Andy is drumming a nervous beat against his knees and Pete smiles, slow, easy and soft.

“SST?” Patrick repeats, disbelieving for a heartbeat. SST is the best-case scenario, the label owned and run by Chris Ginn of Black Flag. SST is the label everyone wants, it’s the label that scoops up indie bands and spearheads the hardcore movement from basement shows to mainstream radio and MTV. SST is more than Patrick ever dared to daydream about, chin propped on his hand as he concentrated on anything but algebra at school. “Bull _shit_ , man.”

Pete is smiling his very best smile, his post-show, post-sex smile that glows like sunlight through thunderstorms. He’s shining like he’s golden as he drags a letter from his pocket and tosses it down for them to scramble over like squabbling kids. He’s wonderful and beautiful and absolutely in his element as he leans back as though he has the answers to everything, as he tosses an arm around Patrick once more and squeezes him close enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

He’s everything. He’s _Patrick’s._

There are plans to be made, Los Angeles is two thousand miles away but Pete has an idea – doesn’t Pete _always_ have a goddamn _idea?_ – a series of shows tracked down Route 66. They’ll beg a show at each of the eight recommended stops along the route, drive in between and play their final set in LA. It’s ludicrous and ridiculous, they have no idea if they’re even known outside of their own corner of the Midwest, if those bootleg tapes have made their way across state lines to friends or cousins or a girlfriend out of state at college.

It could be incredible. It could be shows and sweat and screaming kids and sound that reverberates through them like oxygen. It could be apathetic men with guns telling them to find someplace else to be. It could be an infinite number of things that fall somewhere in between and Patrick wants them all, wants to sample each and every possible reality that lies between Wilmette and LA, each one an inch of rumbling tarmac under van tires.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Pete asks rhetorically, thumb scoring a march into the back of Patrick’s wrist. “Didn’t I fucking _tell_ you, we’d take over the goddamn world? Phase one, motherfuckers. Phase fucking _one.”_

Later, they collapse together onto tangled sheets damp with sweat and come. If Patrick’s mom wonders why he does all of his own laundry these days, she hasn’t asked any awkward questions.

“Tell me what he said,” Patrick demands, skin damp with sweat and bright with bruises that match Pete’s mouth.

Pete grins up at him from the bed, legs still wrapped around Patrick’s waist, his softening cock pressed up between their stomachs. He knows he should pull out, toss away the condom, but for now he’s sated, warm and soft at the edges as he bites a kiss to Pete’s jaw, feels the grate of dark stubble under his tongue.

“I already told you,” Pete laughs and lands a playful slap to his ass, hard enough to sting, soothed with a caress. “Quit being a needy little bitch.”

“Mm, tell me _again,”_ Patrick whispers, a demand hissed through swollen lips that nudge to Pete’s in a ghost of a kiss. “What did he say?”

Pete chuckles, a dark swirl of noise that snakes around Patrick as thick as smoke. He tilts his hips, squeezes tight around Patrick’s cock and grins wide and shining as Patrick groans into his neck. There’s a moment lost to soft lips breathing gentle inquiry into one another’s mouths, hands stroking with desperation as they lean into one another. Pete tastes of cigarettes and Altoids, the ones he sucks when his throat is fucked from screaming their songs like they’re anthems, sharing pain with another crowd full of fire and blood and rage at an establishment that doesn’t care about them.

“We talked for an hour, Baby P,” Pete nuzzles against his throat, nibbles the sweetest kisses along his collarbone as his fingertips swirl a masterpiece of devotion into the blank canvas of Patrick’s back. “I don’t remember all of it.”

“Salient points,” Patrick sucks the salted velvet of Pete’s earlobe, breath sticky and hot as he whispers. “Carefully extracted, laid out in a way that the listener can understand.”

“Don’t go all high school debate club on me,” Pete laughs, the contraction of it echoing through the sensitive softness of Patrick’s cock. He shivers. “It’s weird.”

“You’re weird,” Patrick counters, palm spread flat to Pete’s chest, fingers splayed to absorb him like an oil slick, to mop up each atom and take him apart. He rubs his thumb over the dark pebble of Pete’s nipple, laughs delighted at the tiny whimper that falls from lips swollen with the kisses demanded of them, blood-hot and spit-slick. “C’mon, you can’t hold out on your _boyfriend_ like this.”

“Like that, is it? Okay, fine,” Pete’s hand slides from the rounded cheek of Patrick’s ass, fingers dipping between to where he’s damp with sweat and bright with shuddering need. He can’t help the way his hips buck back as Pete presses a fingertip inside and quirks a grin like moonlight, dark and decadent with promise. “He said he thinks we have a lot of potential. He said our songs are tight, the lyrics mean something and, what was it? Oh yeah, that our singer is fucking _righteous._ Most breath-taking voice he’s ever heard in a punk band, he said you were wasted with morons like us, but he’d take us if it meant getting you.”

“He didn’t say that,” Patrick objects, blushing as bright the sixth time that he hears it as he did the first, fingers trailing through the mess of Pete’s mohawk, scraping it back from the glittering gold of his eyes; Patrick’s riches, his secret jewels hoarded safe and close. “You’re a lying asshole.”

“Swear to God, Baby P,” Pete pauses to suck the curve of Patrick’s lower lip into his mouth, to exchange moans that taste of heat and need as he pushes that finger into Patrick a little further, as Patrick jolts his hips and the softened press of his cock into Pete. “He loves you, the kids love you and _I_ fucking love you. How could anyone not? Like I told you, you’re cute as shit.”

“Shut up, dickweed,” he winds a hand in Pete’s mohawk and tilts back his head, bites a bruise to match the one around Pete’s eye, the one he picked up diving into the pit with the mic cable wound around his arm and neck like they were binding him to reality, screaming his fury into air that hung thick with sweat. “What else did he say?”

Pete smirks in the moment he finds Patrick’s prostate, in the second Patrick tenses above him with a shuddering moan. His skin crackles with the fizz of blood heated with lust, his hips rocking slowly as he tries to fuck himself hard again. He will, too, just give him a minute…

“He said he wants us to head out to LA,” Pete whispers into his ear, withdrawing his finger and squeezing the curve of Patrick’s ass. “God, P, they’re gonna lose their fucking shit over you out there.”

He hides his blush in a fall of hair into his eyes, buries his embarrassment in kisses that taste of tattoos and adoration. He’s brisk and business-like as he pulls out – the lube has dried a little like the come that streaks their stomachs, he’s still not sure if Pete should be wearing a condom too – as he ties off the rubber and tosses it into his trash basket to be buried under tissues and ripped paper. He’s carefully cautious and warily watchful as he slips on his shorts and sits at his desk, feet kicked up against it as he fixes his eyes on a spot someplace above Pete’s head.

“We should tell my mom,” he suggests with hopeful optimism. Pete throws him a glance that’s half confusion, half annoyance and he knows where the conversation is going before he speaks a single one of the words that Patrick doesn’t want to hear.

“Tell her what?” Pete asks, as though it isn’t obvious, as though the elephant isn’t standing in the corner of the room with his skiing gear.

Patrick shrugs his humiliation down into the pile of textbooks in front of him. Why can’t he keep his damn mouth shut? But the words keep coming, like the dam doesn’t have a hope of holding them back. “About us. You and me. You know?”

Pete scowls like he knows but doesn’t want to, opens his mouth like he’s about to yell something that hurts. Then he stops, his chest hitching with a breath that looks as though it hurts, that smooths the anger from his features and leaves them calm and still, “Come on, Baby P, you’re seventeen. I’m twenty-two, what do you think your mom would have to say about it?”

“I’m legal,” Patrick objects but doesn’t get to say a word more as Pete laughs, cold and sharp.

“You think she cares?” He asks with a voice that stings. He pauses and softens and takes Patrick’s hand. “You’re her little boy, you know? You really think she’ll wave you off in the back of a van with me if she knows I’m fucking you?”

“I’m fucking _you_ , more like,” Patrick snaps as though he thinks it might make a difference to his mom. It annoys him that Pete’s right, irritates him like an itch under his skin but then Pete cracks a smile and Patrick can’t help but do the same. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. You want to stay over?”

Pete nods with a smile and stretches with a sigh, lax and limp against the comforter. He shines with vitality from skinned hued with gold and eyes that sparkle like starlight, he looks okay. He _is_ okay, Patrick decides, poking the condom down a little further beneath the tattered remnants of glossy printed paper. AIDS? He doesn’t _need_ to “get the facts,” of that much he’s absolutely, unequivocally sure.

~*~

Patrick lies awake in the dead hours of the morning.

It’s three am; over an hour since Pete’s fevered babbling trailed away to mumbled whispering that gave way to deep, steady breathing. Patrick wonders if he’s taken himself off the Lithium again. He wonders if it’s a good idea.

It’s not often that Patrick gets these moments, a rare occurrence for Pete to sleep before he does when usually he spends the night a mess of sweat and twitching limbs and whispered nonsense into Patrick’s ear, determined to rob him of sleep if there’s not enough to go around for him, too. Patrick never understood the poetry thing, never really _got_ Pete’s love for twisting words to suit his own ends but he could get it now. Could grab a notebook and paint a portrait of beautiful syllables about the curve of Pete’s throat, about the way his lashes fan over the arch of his cheekbones. He could write sonnets and love songs and heartfelt prose about the way his ribs rise and fall with each gentle breath, the way the skin stained with ink and bruises and bloody scratches picked up at shows is pulled taut over muscle and bone and everything that works together to make _Pete_.

Instead, he just watches, barely moves, hardly draws breath in case he disturbs him, makes him stutter and blink and wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth with a groan. He doesn’t want Pete to steal _this_ version of himself from him, wants to hoard it for himself like he’s greedy for it. So, he holds still and quiet, fingers light against the sharp line of Pete’s hip bone, face pressed to the curve of his bicep and traces him with a glance, paints a canvas of devotion with his eyes.

Patrick isn’t the dumb kid everyone seems to suppose he is. He knows – in hidden places, locked away carefully – that Pete is right, he _knows_ the word _gay_ is still an insult. He knows _fag_ and _queer_ are still hurled like barbs around the halls of his high school, in the clubs where they play and on the streets of Chicago. He’s _not_ a naïve little boy anymore, he’s seen the world, he knows how these things work.

But, oh, how he longs to change it. How he longs to drag Pete to his lips on the stage and throw his middle finger in the air at anyone that challenges them. He wants to greet those that talk shit about them with fists and blood and teeth spat onto the sidewalk because _fuck_ that shit. _The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing;_ that’s what some crusty old dude said once upon a time and Patrick won’t be that idle good man _._

They’re punks – the poets of the street, the champions of the downtrodden, the ones that see the world for exactly what it is. They have their platform, their place in the world to share a message and make it matter, to shout their truth to the sky and hear it screamed back a thousand-fold by voices too numerous to count. They have a label expressing interest and an adventure mapped out before them and Patrick won’t – _can’t_ – live a life of pretence forever. He knows Pete can’t either, knows that sooner or later fear has to give way to hope, that pride will fall to love and then…

_Then_ they can take over the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've definitely shifted this to a Wednesday, if anyone wants to keep track of when it'll be updated. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos mean the world to me or come chat to me on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers)


	12. Stay gold, Ponyboy... Stay gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the band make their way to LA...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back.
> 
> The chapter title this week is taking from the movie (and book, obviously) The Outsiders. I've been holding this one back for a while because... well, you'll see.
> 
> Big thank yous to laudanum_cafe who understands these characters better than I understand them myself.

The night sky shimmers like satin above them.

 

They’re just a few miles further outside of the city, out by the lake where the water laps against the shore and the cold night air bites down through the leather of his jacket, but already the stars seem a little brighter. They hang like crystals pitched against velvet, glowing bright and eager and reflecting the hopes and aspirations of the millions of Patrick-and-Petes that lay beneath them since the universe roared into life.

 

They lie on the roof of the Edsel, no need to worry about damage to the paintwork, Patrick’s pretty sure it’s the rust that holds the damn thing together anyway, fingers entwined as their breath hangs like mist above them. He would work a hand down the tight front of Pete’s skinny jeans, stroke his cock and kiss fire into the lush sweep of his mouth, steal warm breath from his lungs to gust fire into his own but his fingers are cramped from the cold, stiff and useless. He wishes the whole punk thing came with warmer jackets.

 

They talk about everything and nothing; highs and lows, hopes and dreams, aspirations loaded onto kisses that burn with the blaze of midsummer. Pete paints a canvas of beautiful words, each one blazing with passion and adoration and every syllable prepared just for Patrick. It’s the kind of romantic shit he pretended he didn’t want, the thing he sneered at as being just for girls. He finds the reality is somewhat more impressive, a litany of promises murmured into his ear on breath that smells of Big Red and sex. Patrick glows with the proximity of him, a planet caught and destined to orbit him, drawn by the pull of him.

 

They don’t talk about Mikey.

 

It’s a taboo, a subject that’s not to be raised since the bruises on knuckles and noses faded away to nothing. It’s an unspoken truce between them that Pete won’t talk and Patrick won’t ask – he won’t be that asshole again, he swears he won’t – that they’ll pretend it never happened and, day by day, Patrick can feel the screaming itch under his skin receding. Pete is _fine_ , and Patrick hasn’t been with anyone other than Pete. And if he spares a thought, it’s one of sadness for one of the ones that didn’t get lucky, for the boy barely older than he is robbed of anything further. Patrick won’t be like him. Patrick is _fine._

 

Fuck, but it’s freezing and before too long they retire to the car, heater cranked up high as he fumbles for the road atlas they marked together. It’s all estimations, all based on journeys of similar length that they’ve made to other cities in other states, guesswork and _it’ll have to do_ muttered around marker caps caught between lips and snagged by teeth.

 

Eight shows.

 

Eight stars scored onto the map that they spread out on the backseat between them. Patrick traces the route with a frown and the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth. Pete’s hand covers his own, wraps it in warmth and security as he guides him along the flow of the road, whispering each stop into his ear like the promise of riches wrapped in the sweet heat of his breath.

 

“St Louis, Springfield, Baxter Springs, Oklahoma City,” he marks each one with a kiss to Patrick’s neck, every smooth syllable rolling from him with passion and precision that sparks something bright and needy in his chest. “Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Los Angeles… Hell or glory, Baby P. You ready to blow them the fuck away?”

 

Patrick nods, dreamy and delighted as he leans back into Pete with a smile, as he kisses him over the curve of his shoulder, fingers tightening, breath stolen hot and damp from Pete’s lungs. There are phone books emblazoned with each city’s name like Hollywood stars stacked in Pete’s bedroom, god knows where he got them, checked from cover to cover for bars or campuses or community centres. Anywhere that might offer them a stage, offer them thirty minutes, offer them an opportunity to showcase and broadcast and spread their name. He knows Pete will not rest until _Fall Out Boy_ is smeared across lips from coast to coast, across the continent, around the _world_. He wants their name to be spoken in the same breath as the greats; The Sex Pistols, The Clash, Minor Threat, Black Flag.

 

And Fall Out Boy.

 

Pete wants the glory, wants t-shirts with their name emblazoned across them in every high school, on every college campus, worn like a coat of arms that screams their presence. He wants albums and arenas and his words chanted back at him by thousands of voices that rise and fall with the passion of their message. Patrick craves the music, the way it cloaks him in something unrecognisable and turns him into all of the things he wants to be in real life, but can’t.

 

Patrick’s not sure what else he wants outside of what he has right in this moment, contained in the back of a shitty car with his boyfriend kissing bruises into his neck. Music, always music, thrumming through his veins and pounding with his heart, driving the very force of his being with a flow and throb that sparks and drives through him until he hums with it. Two things; music and Pete, all brought together and tangled until separating them is no more than a fantasy, one impossible to comprehend without the other.

 

Pete’s still soft in his jeans under the grind of Patrick’s hips, the roll of his ass, denim over denim. He murmurs apology into Patrick’s throat but, in honesty, Patrick’s just pleased he’s taking the Lithium again, the shakes and limp cock an easy exchange for a Pete that’s balanced and mostly level. _Pete_ is still soft but _Patrick_ is aching, throbbing, _burning_ from the inside out as he pulls his cock free and jerks himself off as they kiss. His hand slides against his shaft as Pete whispers encouragement, tells him he’s the prettiest he’s ever had and strokes lust into the line of Patrick’s hips until he’s teetering, balanced on a knife edge of need and want.

 

Then, when he’s aching and throbbing, Pete pushes him back against the driver’s seat, ducks his head awkwardly and sucks him down with the fury of desperate need. He arches his hips, one arm locked around the headrest as he grunts undignified passion into the heel of his hand. There’s no need to be quiet here, no need to hold back every screaming moan that burns his lungs raw, but he does it anyway, fucks his hips up into Pete’s mouth as he shakes apart with vision blurred and breath held hot and stale. He slides a hand to fuck-trashed hair, stroking gentle tenderness into the nape of Pete’s neck as he draws out each shuddering groan, each jerk of his hips and twitch of his cock that stings with sensitivity.

 

Pete kisses him, slicks the residue of come and spit against his lips and tongue, the bitter salt and cinnamon sweet that lingers in his mouth as he grasps at Patrick like he’s the only thing keeping him anchored and solid. He rests the damp press of their foreheads together, eyes that swirl copper, amber and gold bright and sharp against his own as he smiles, slow and lazy.

 

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, their fingers caught and laced and pressed to his cheek. “You promised me the world, Wentz.”

 

“I meant it,” Pete replies, heated with assurance and hope that he presses to Patrick’s lips like stolen riches. “Every fucking word, Baby P. Swear to God.”

 

He shines with the sincerity of every utterance, every contraction of vocal cords delivered with simple honesty. Patrick squeezes his hand and considers the possibilities, the promise of the unknown that hangs in front of them.

 

Eight shows.

 

St Louis, Springfield, Baxter Springs, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff and Los Angeles. Two thousand miles and a whole world of unexplored potential, of kids that might love or loathe, of a record deal or not.

 

Hell or glory.

 

“I believe you,” he assures him, the truth of it ringing in his ears like an aftershock.

 

“Yeah?” Pete smiles up at him, grin gilded golden in the gloom of the backseat.

 

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers, peppered with kisses. “Yeah. I trust you.”

 

“I love you,” Pete murmurs into the hollow of Patrick’s throat, exposed by the dragged-out neck of his Sex Pistols shirt, the one he wore a lifetime ago in a club hazed with sweat and thrashing guitar on the night he threw a punch at the lips pressed to his neck. The night Pete named him _Baby P_.

 

Patrick nudges his nose through the crown of jet-dark hair that presses to his chin, breathes in sex and sweat and Pete as he closes his eyes and whispers soft as a breath, “I love you, too.”

 

~*~

 

Patrick dozes as the road hums beneath them, as the thrum of it makes his teeth vibrate and his ears ring with the steady beat of a thousand songs he hasn’t written yet. His nose is filled with the smell of dirty denim, cheek tucked to the rip in the thigh of Pete’s jeans so he can feel the smooth press of warm skin as absent fingers card through his hair. Pete slouches into the window, collar turned up and fingerless gloves revealing the chip of black nail polish, lip caught in the crush of pearl-bright teeth as he stares out of the window.

 

They blew St Louis away. Patrick can still feel the distant throb of drums that matched his heartbeat, the way Joe’s guitar sung through him like a chorus and the pulse of Pete’s bass under it all like the swell of the tide, like the roll of hips in the dark. He had sung until his voice cracked and broke, until he was screaming the lyrics as the sweat rolled down his back and brow and burnt his eyes raw. There was an echo of the roar that wound around them, the three hundred kids jammed into the sweat-fug heat of the basement to hurl themselves into the pit and scream right along with him.

 

When his voice gave out entirely during their last song, when the taste of blood stained the back of his tongue, they rushed the stage like a battlefield and brought the words for him so all he had to do was close his eyes and lean into the press of them. When the last chord soared above them, the last drum beat echoed from the walls, he opened his eyes once more and met a swirl of liquid gold above the curve of a smile that sung with joy.

 

“It won’t last,” Andy warned them as they piled into the van, high on adrenaline and a shared bag of weed that Joe produced from his duffel bag. Patrick had hacked and coughed until his lungs hurt at the burn of it, until he had to huff unsteadily on his inhaler as Pete implored him not to die because they would never replace him. He punched him, knuckles solid and sharp against the toffee sweet skin of his shoulder, the laugh bubbling from him unbidden. “You’ve played here before; we’re barely four hours from Chicago. It’s gonna get tougher.”

 

It didn’t.

 

Springfield, Baxter Springs, Oklahoma City and Amarillo were all the same. He can barely talk between shows for fear of shredding his voice even further. Just sips sweet, milky tea and sucks on cough drops to provide relief, whispering promises into Pete’s ear as the highway slips away, a ribbon of grey-black lost to tires, hours, and endless conversation that flows heady with expectation. They ring with the excitement of it, with the knowledge that they’re following in the wake of those bootleg cassettes, with the _have you heard these guys_ and _seriously man, you need to borrow this_.

 

He has to admit as he floats in dreamlike non-reality, lost somewhere in the delicious nowhere, that hangs between sleep and wakefulness, that he felt a pang of unease when he couldn’t find Pete the night before. That there was something hard and uncomfortable lodged against his windpipe when he found him leaning casually against the wall with a grin brighter than any stage light the shitty club was able to offer them. He’ll confess to feeling something ugly and unpleasant in his gut when he realised he was talking to a girl – pretty, hair blacker than the walls splashed with chalkboard paint, piercings catching the light. There was flirtation in his stance and something dark and decadent in the liquid depths of soulful eyes, smile a curve of encouragement on plush lips as his mohawk wilted charmingly onto his brow.

 

Patrick had watched, small and dark and jealous, tucked just out of sight around the corner of the bar, waiting for the moment Pete would reach for her hand, guide her out to the van or to the shitty little room out back that held their things. Instead Pete had glanced around with something like _missing_ bright in his eyes, had squeezed her shoulder like a kind big brother and pushed away from the wall, eyes flashing back and forth until they sought out blue under blonde, his grin wide enough to split as he hurried to Patrick’s side. He’d slung an arm over the damp of Patrick’s shoulders and pressed a sloppy but platonic-to-those-that-didn’t-know kiss to his cheek with a cry of _Baby fuckin’ P!_

 

Patrick felt bad for thinking the worst.

 

He sighs against the stretch of skin close to his lips, brushes a kiss against the taste of salt and home. Above him, Pete chuckles softly, thumb tracing the curve of his lip before pressing inside the softness of his mouth. Patrick sucks obediently, still half asleep, still smiling approval around the taste of copper bass strings. Pete whispers, voice soft enough that the two riding up front can’t hear, that it’s still their secret whispered between them, “I fuckin’ _love_ you, P.”

 

Patrick murmurs his agreement into the scent of sweat and salt that clings to Pete, clings to Patrick, soaked into the seats of the van. He tucks down a little further into the jacket he’s slung over himself as a makeshift blanket and squeezes assurance into the lean muscle of Pete’s thigh, losing himself to sleep and dreams of screaming crowds, the hum of the highway lost to the pulse of a kick drum that throbs in his ribs.

 

He wakes hours later, cramped and stiff, to the smudge of orange and lilac streaking the sky. Pete snores softly above him, the shine of drool traced delicately from the corner of his mouth to the damp patch on the shoulder of his jean jacket – _Patrick’s_ jacket, but Pete has claimed it. He stretches his aching legs one at a time, feels the burn and pull of aching muscles from his thighs down to his toes – still clad in the vice of his Doc Martens – rolling his ankles slowly as he tries not to wake –

 

“P?” Pete slurs above him, fingers soft in his hair as the skyline rolls past them. The weather is different here, still cold, but not the frigid stillness of Chicago cold, the sun cresting the horizon to their east and slanting golden light against skin like warm caramel. Pete’s hand stirs the scent of unwashed hair and un-showered boy that hangs thick around them.

 

“We stink,” Patrick observes quietly, rolling onto his back and scrubbing the scratch of sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand, tongue sticky against the roof of his mouth.

 

“Metaphorically?” Pete arches a lazy eyebrow as Joe groans something unintelligible from the bench in front of them, knees twisted uncomfortably to accommodate his guitar case.

 

“Literally,” Patrick confirms with a groan that reverberates up through his chest to hum in his ears. “Maybe there’ll be showers at the next rest stop.”

 

“Would you use them?” Andy asks sardonically from the driver’s seat, eyes ringed dark with exhaustion. He’ll crash out on the back seat once they arrive at their venue, a college hall someplace in Albuquerque, ringed on the street map that Patrick will start reading once they’ve grabbed something to eat. “Man, pissing in those places is as much as I can stand, even then it’s only ‘cause I _have_ to…”

 

“I’d shower. Fuck, I’d take a prison shower right about now if that’s all they had,” Joe struggles upright and buries his nose in his underarm with a grimace. “Man, I smell like fuckin’ _ass._ Hey, Patrick, you’re the expert, come smell me, tell me if I’m sweeter than Pete’s cornhole – ”

 

“Fuck off, Trohman,” Pete launches himself across the seat with a shout like a battle cry, landing on Joe with a grunt, wrists pinned sharp in hands marked up with bruised knuckles. Joe bucks and laughs beneath him, tells him that he better not be getting off on this with his _boyfriend_ sat right there. “Say uncle! Say fuckin’ uncle!”

 

The van rings with laughter and excitement that buzzes through them like something palpable and real. The ringing sweetness of good things to come because they’re doing it – they’re actually fucking _doing_ it – dragging the crowd with them wherever they go. Patrick tumbles into the fray with a whoop that burns his fucked-raw throat as Joe and Pete fall on him like puppies and Andy valiantly reminds them that he’s _trying to fucking drive for fuck’s sake._ His life is sweet, he decides as Joe’s knuckles connect with the curve of his jaw, as Pete drags him into a headlock and slides the muscled grip of his thighs around the softness of his waist. He has music and friends and something intangibly perfect stretching out ahead of him that makes him tingle with static electricity.

 

He decides, elbow launched back into the sharpness of Pete’s ribs, boot connecting with the solidity of Joe’s chest, as they curse and laugh and yelp with the pain of play that’s just a little too rough in that dumb, teenage boy way, that yeah, it doesn’t get any better than this.

 

He washes as best he can in a rest stop bathroom, splashing tepid water onto his face and under his arms, replacing the sour tang of day-old sweat with the chemical sting of hand wash dispensed from a pump barely cleaner than the floor. Joe raises an eyebrow in the mirror, stripped the waist as he rubs himself down with baby wipes, Andy mutters something about kids being disgusting around his toothbrush but Pete just smiles, a secret shared in the shimmer of their reflections as he mutters under his breath, “Remember the air freshener?”

 

Patrick laughs, dries himself with paper towels and shoves on a shirt that’s creased and battered but mostly clean, a quick spray of Right Guard and a donut bought and crammed into his mouth then back into the van. He navigates the city as Joe drives, Andy already asleep on the backseat while Pete slings on his Walkman and taps a rhythm to an unheard beat against his knee.

 

He’s devastating in his beauty, caught in the frame of a duct-taped rear-view mirror, in the way his skin glows with copper and gold, the way his dark brows frame eyes like liquid heat. He’s everything and more that Patrick ever daydreamed about with his chin propped on his hand as he stared out of the window in class. He’s the sum total of every physical and emotional attribute that Patrick ever imagined could possibly be waiting for him and then something more. Patrick always told himself he’d get ordinary, just like him. He never dreamed for a second that he’d somehow wind up with exceptional.

 

They lose the day like they lost the ones that fell before it. Food bought in diners and conversation exchanged that doesn’t mean anything to anyone but them. Andy sleeps until Joe wakes him with a cold soda can to the back of the neck that makes him squeal and threaten to quit like every other drummer they’ve had. They unpack and set up and don’t have time to mic check before the doors are opening and the room is filling with chests emblazoned with The Kennedys and Dag Nasty and D.R.I. It floods with chains hanging from belts and jeans torn in the fistfights of mosh pits that have come before tonight.

 

Lights dim even further in the room that’s already close to dark, a couple of shitty, badly focussed spot lights the only thing left to illuminate them as they take the stage to a roar that screams of anger and disenchantment. These are their people, their crowd, and the oxygen that hums through their bloodstreams to keep them breathing. Patrick’s spine tingles with a thousand tiny points of perfect passion as Andy clicks his sticks, as Pete leans into his mic and, in a moment of perfect stillness, draws a breath that whistles through, over and around them and the crowd, uniting them with syncopated breathing from a single set of lungs.

 

“What’s up motherfuckers,” Pete’s throat must bleed with the effort as the guitars swoop and crash around them, as Joe takes off in a blaze of screaming movement that blurs the corners of Patrick’s vision. “We’re fuckin’ _Fall Out Boy_ , let’s hear you fuckin’ _scream!”_

 

They don’t disappoint, the pit swirling to life in front of them as Patrick sings until his lungs contract with the pressure of it. The frets burn into the tender tips of his fingers and he knows they’ll ache and throb in time with the beat, torn and possibly bleeding from ragged skin. He’s aware of Pete, knows it’s coming as he crosses the stage to lean into him, just a touch of a shoulder, anything else would be _weird_ , _too much, totally fucking gay._ But it’s skin. Skin that glows with the salt of sweat and the burn of something raw and powerful and utterly, indescribably Pete, the taste of it rich on Patrick’s tongue as they share a grin loaded with unspoken promise and then he twirls away to join Joe.

 

Patrick is humming with the dark magic conjured up to wrap around them, with the crowd he can’t quite see without his glasses, with the stench of sweat and the sting of pain in his hands and throat. It’s like sex, he decides, pulse, beat, sweat, and skin. It builds and ebbs around them like waves, the press and crush of the first few invaders to the stage jostling against Patrick as he screams the final lyrics into the mic. There are more – more and more, an unending flood of leather, denim, studs, and _heat_ – until it feels like there are more kids crowded onto the shitty stage than there are out there on the floor. Patrick is soaring with it, eyes closed once more, body weightless as he leans into the push and shove of them around him, as hands grab and catch as they swirl like the tide. There’s a groan under the feedback of their guitars, something weird and impossible to place, Patrick cocks his head and wonders, for a second, what the fuck it is.

 

Then he feels the curl of warm fingers around his own for a beat – two beats, three, more, eyes wide and confused – Pete grins at him like he’s everything, squeezes for a split second, lips awfully close and Patrick wonders, startled, is he going to –

 

The groan gives way to an ear-splitting crack as the very ground shifts and lurches beneath them, as the fingers slip from his and everyone pitches and slips, falling, tripping, the world sliding away… Patrick lands on his ass with a thump that he knows will bruise and a laugh burning bright in his throat. The stage is in ruins, smashed to pieces by the weight and fury of several hundred kids stamping their passion into the plywood. Pete is bleeding, lips painted red with the gore of it, teeth washed pink as he throws back his head with a howl of approval. Joe is sprawled back with a girl in his lap, her tongue licking into his mouth as he grins as if it was supposed to work out that way. Andy just blinks, confused, from his drum riser at the devastation around them.

 

Somewhere outside, a police siren shrieks into life and Patrick wonders, with the absence of someone not quite aware of the full extent of the trouble they’re in, just how the fuck they’re going to explain this.

 

He thinks it might be the best night of his life.

 

When things calm, when Patrick manages to pull off the Oscar-winning performance of his life with his ink-free skin and wide blue eyes blinking innocently behind the lenses of his glasses. When the police leave with no more than a warning, everything seems to pause for breath. There’s still the manager to talk to, the man glaring at them from the sound booth with the tattered remains of his stage piled in a corner by a hundred willing hands. For now, he breathes, sips a beer that no one bothered to ID him for and watches the crowd as they dance and sing and press together damp with sweat.

 

“Hey man,” the voice in his ear is honeyed with a southern accent, low and soft. Patrick turns with the kind of stuttered mumbling of a kid not used to someone speaking to them, eyes meeting a gaze that glows green in the dark, lips framing the neck of a bottle of Coors. “You’re the singer, right? Of that band that just fucked the place?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick stammers, uncertain and unsure under the glow of a gaze that he would never have recognised before Pete but now – oh, _now_ – he knows the flame of flirtation like an old friend. The guy is young, maybe around Patrick’s age, probably a year or two older, glowing with the kind of self-assured confidence that screams of Pete. “That’s right, I’m him, uh... me. I’m me, obviously. But I’m also the singer. Of the band.”

 

Patrick bites the rest of his rambling into the flush of his lower lip, sinking teeth into skin to stop the endless flow of babbled syllables that threaten to cast them both adrift on a wash of awkward stammering. He casts an eye around for Pete but he’s nowhere to be seen, Andy appears deep in conversation with a couple of guys lingering around his kit and Joe is still sucking face with the girl that landed on him. Unease stirs bright in his chest as he smiles nervously and takes the offered hand that lingers for just a moment too long against his own.

 

“I’m Michael,” the guy informs him around the clumsy lisp of a badly placed lip piercing. More metal gleams in his nose, at his eyebrow, a couple in each ear curving up around the shell. He’s handsome, with smooth, pale skin and the same baggy, straight edge look that Andy prefers, loose shirt, loose jeans, battered Nikes. Patrick shifts against the bar.

 

“Patrick,” he murmurs hoarsely. He wants to leave, wants to find Pete and shoot the shit in the back of the van until they need to head onto the road again. The club buzzes around them like VOID that first night, the hum of the crowd, the pulse of the speakers and the stench of sweat and spilled beer and cigarettes sharp in his nose.

 

“You were amazing up there,” Michael grins, all-American smile, white teeth, broad jaw, eyes that sparkle with promise and mischief. “Your _voice_ , dude, I – I’ve never heard someone sing hardcore that way before. You blew everyone away; you’re all they can talk about.”

 

“Thanks,” Patrick smiles awkwardly at his boots, hands a fumble of stuttered movement against the sweating glass of his bottle clutched in awkward fingers.

 

Michael shifts, hand reaching out to smoothly touch the top of Patrick’s thigh as he smiles, nervous and uncertain – Patrick would like to bet he’s felt the burn of knuckles against his face for far less – as he mutters under his breath, “I… Am I wrong?”

 

Patrick smiles shyly, tips his head back and lets the beer wash cool and bitter over his tongue, down his throat as he swallows. He shakes his head with lowered lashes as he reaches for the callous-crowned fingers that subtly brush his skin under the cover of the bar. Michael seems sweet, the hint of a flush creeping across the crests of high cheekbones stretched with skin as smoothly soft and pale as Patrick’s. He guides his hand gently back to the bar and squeezes with something he hopes is reassurance.

 

“You’re not wrong,” he keeps his voice low, hates the way it shakes and stutters. “But… I – I’m kind of… Well, I’m seeing someone. You know?”

 

“O-oh,” Michael nods, quick, sharp and embarrassed, fingers curling against his drink as he plucks with awkward nails at the label on his bottle. “I get it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… But… You’re still _rad_ , you know? I… I hope you guys make it.”

 

“Thanks,” Patrick murmurs again, squeezing his arm lightly with a smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. “Listen, I better…”

 

“Yeah, you gotta bounce,” Michael nods, clearly glad that the humiliation of rejection is almost over. For the first time, Patrick appreciates what it must be like to be a gay dude in the scene; the furtive way Michael’s eyes scan the room, the fear that haunted his features as he touched Patrick’s leg, the fake and false brightness of his smile. For the first time, he appreciates how lucky he is to have had Pete fall into his lap. “Nice talking to you, Patrick.”

 

He smiles a goodbye and circles the room, eyes flicking back and forth for the curve of a golden grin, the sharp points of copper eyes sparkling at him with something just for him. Casual glances become frantic on his second lap, panic sparking bright in his chest by the third because _where the fuck is he?_

 

He slips outside, unnoticed, and heads for the van. He hopes he’ll see him perched on the running board with a cigarette between his lips and eyes painted dark with starlight. He hopes he’ll smile at him, wide and heartfelt and they’ll take a moment to make out against the side of the van, tangled like whispered promises, aching with the need to collapse together. He hopes he’ll be there – alone – and everything will be normal.

 

But he’s not _surprised_ when he’s there but not alone.

 

He’s not _shocked_ at the sight of the curve of Pete’s bare ass, jeans shoved down around his ankles and slim, shapely thighs tight around his waist. He doesn’t feel a moment of disbelief at the sight of Pete thrusting into her – whoever the fuck she is – his head dropped to her shoulder as he whispers honeyed declarations into her ear. No, none of it catches him off-guard, none of it is unexpected.

 

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

 

There’s a raw burn in his chest, stomach churning and acid bright at the back of his throat as he stares, open-mouthed and aching, fingers digging bright points of pain that hold him steady as breath hisses sour and sharp over his lips.

 

“You _motherfucker,”_ he spits like no one else can hear them, because he doesn’t _care_ if anyone else can hear them.

 

Pete jolts – could be shock, could be because he’s about to come – eyes snapping wide and wild as they lock with Patrick’s across ten feet of asphalt and a yawning chasm of _go fuck yourself._ Humiliation coats a sour film on Patrick’s tongue as he stares at them for a few seconds more, as she tells him to fuck off like _he’s_ the interloper here.

 

“Patrick,” Pete pants, though he seems to be trying desperately to regulate his breathing, there’s the warning of apologies waiting to fall flat brimming in soulful eyes as he blinks and shakes his head. He’s still inside of her. Patrick feels sick. “Baby P, c’mon, I – it’s not –”

 

_It’s not what it looks like?_

 

Patrick has crossed the ground between them like he’s sleepwalking, fist pulled back and smashed into the hallowed sweep of lips parted to plead. She screams and shoves Pete away, yanking down her skirt and stooping to yank up her panties. Once again, his knuckles smear wet and sticky with blood – Pete’s blood – as he spits at him like a curse, “Don’t fucking talk to me.”

 

There’s so much more to say, so many more accusations he wants to scream and threats he wants to hurl. He wants to tell Pete they’re not over because they were never anything to start, that he takes back every single whispered word of childish adoration. He wants to inform him that he was nothing more than a stupid crush. But most of all, he wants to make him hurt so instead of throwing words like barbs, he snaps his mouth shut and turns on his heel, back into the club with Pete’s desperate pleas for him to _just wait a fuckin’ second, man_ ringing in his ears.

 

Back in the club it takes no time at all to find him, standing to one side with a beer clutched in his hand, foot kicked up against the wall. Patrick feels dizzy, the ground under his feet rising and falling like they’ve been cast adrift. There’s an incomprehensible, dream-like quality to the voices and faces around him as they swell in and out of focus, the noise crushing, swelling, _suffocating_ him as he staggers on shock-drunk feet to stumble into a broad chest. He blinks up at him, smiling around the tears that sting salt-bright in the corners of his eyes, a crooked baring of teeth that he returns uncertainly.

 

“Patrick? You okay?” he asks, soft concern and sweet green gaze.

 

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, head tilted toward the back room. “Yeah ‘m fine. You still want to fuck?”

 

The air leaves the room, a perfect vacuum of pain and need left behind as Michael stares at him, jaw slightly slack, eyes wide. Patrick holds the gaze, chin tilted up in arrogant challenge. Michael nods, the sharp jerk of his head, a puppet yanked by a string that neither of them fully comprehends. Patrick leads and Michael follows, two steps behind, as if they think they’re subtle as they wind through the crowd without touching. Patrick’s done this before, a college party, a handsome punk leading him to a dark room for debauched touches that left him burning in ice and aching with a pain he didn’t understand.

 

They’re through the door in a moment, a crash of lips and hips like train wrecks, like they’re fucking to kill. Nails bite blunt at the back of his neck as a tongue presses into his mouth and he’s slammed to the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. He grasps at hair cropped too close to provide any purchase, fingers scrabbling against the soft fuzz of it as his other hand snakes into loose-fitting jeans. He slides his fingers around the solid throb of a cock that isn’t Pete’s, strokes against the satin-smooth skin and tries to lose the image of honey-gold hips fucking into someone else, moans of a name like a language only Patrick was supposed to know whispered by another. He can’t breathe, can’t think, all he can see is Pete, fucking _Pete,_ jeans around his ankles and –

 

He cries out, ragged and raw as Michael’s hand slides around his own half-hard dick, tugging him with finesse as he whispers pretty words into his ear, as he tells him he wants him, wanted him the whole time he stood up on stage. Some lost recess of Patrick’s subconscious flicks the lock with a muted click then he’s pulling free of arms wound around him, kicking off boots and jeans and underwear and standing, legs spread in invitation as he braces over the table.

 

“Fuck me,” he snarls. He’s had no prep, they’ve got no lube but _fuck_ , this time he wants it to burn, wants Michael to fuck every image of Pete and _her_ out of his head, to make everything quiet with the scream of flesh against flesh. “Now!”

 

A hand cups the back of his neck, pushing him forward until he’s ass up and cheek pressed to the table. He blinks around tears that sting his eyes that glitter diamonds into his vision as he waits for the blunt press of a blood-gorged cock against the pucker of his ass. Instead, he feels the shift of air, cool against the warmth of his cheeks, the drag of hands against his skin and then…

 

“Shit,” he hisses through clenched teeth as a tongue brushes, soft and light, along the crease of his ass. He stiffens, tight and drawn, as Michael licks him open, as he slides in fingers around the swirl of his tongue. Patrick thrusts the swell of his cock against worn Formica, nails scrabbling for impossible purchase on something solid until he’s sure he’ll rip them off. He chants cursed prayers, declarations and instructions, begs for Michael to just _fuck him_ already as a third finger slides in, as he fucks his hips back onto it and stretches himself.  

 

But he can still see Pete, still see the curve of his ass in the silver of starlight, the copper depths of eyes that implored for forgiveness he doesn’t fucking deserve. Patrick’s _not stupid_ – yes, he knows he keeps saying it – he won’t forgive him again. He won’t. He needs this, needs to know what the appeal is of the body of a stranger and Michael is _good_ , the warmth of his tongue, the press of his fingers, the cock that curves up towards his stomach, thick and swollen heavy with blood and _bigger than Pete’s._

 

Fuck Pete Wentz.

 

“Now,” he urges, desperate need dark and bitter. “Fuck me, _now.”_

 

“You’re not ready,” Michael objects.

 

“You don’t get to decide that,” Patrick hisses around the clench of teeth. “Fuck me. Now.”

 

Michael scrambles to his feet, brushing kisses against warm skin like butterfly caresses. His nails sink into the softness of Patrick’s hips, biting bruises that will last, that he’ll make sure Pete _sees_ , all shaded in black and purple, bruises that will fade to a canvas of greens and browns but lingering like unspoken accusations. _You think you’re the only one that can do this, but I can do it, too._

 

There’s the solid press of the crown of Michael’s cock against his spit-slick hole and this is it; this is the moment he could back out, could get dressed and keep his place on the moral high ground.

 

He presses his hips back, the thick flare of the head sliding into him with a burn that makes him scream out a curse. Michael pauses for just a moment then Patrick is reaching back, sinking his fingers into the swell of his ass and hauling him forward, pressing him inside. The stretch of it stings, would bring tears to his eyes if they weren’t already there, but for a moment, a blissful second of stillness, it’s all he can think about. Just a breath of time, enough for an inhale and shuddering exhale of air that feels too thick and hot to breathe comfortably and then the reason he’s here is back, glowing bright behind closed eyelids.

 

“Please,” he whispers, as lips trace the curve of his throat. “Make it rough.”

 

Michael doesn’t, won’t, stammers words that sound like reassurance but ring with apology as he slowly begins to rock his hips, hand sliding around the neglected swell of Patrick’s prick. It still _hurts_ , still _burns_ through his hips and spine as the spit dries and skin drags and catches against sensitive places. The table thuds and rocks beneath them, the beat of it building, cacophonous, pounding in Patrick’s ears until it’s like thunder crashing through his skull, his head vibrating with it until it’s all he can hear, all he can _feel_ , like he can taste it sharp on the tip of his tongue.

 

There’s a scream of his name that sounds too far away to be Michael, shredding over the pounding beat that seems to clash with the slap of their hips and, as Michael stammers behind him, as heat pools in his stomach and he cries his anger into an arm folded under his cheek, he realises – they’re not the same. The hand around his cock squeezes tight, fingers sliding wet and sticky over the sensitive flare of the head and he’s coming, shooting white across the table beneath him as he shakes and trembles, as he feels Michael’s hips stutter against his own and the heat and slick of come between his cheeks.

 

Fuck. _Why_ didn’t he grab a condom?

 

The banging crescendos even as they slow and Patrick realises, dim and distant, that it’s the slam of flesh to wood as a voice screams his name. As Michael slips from inside him with a panicked bark of _what the fuck¸_ as come slicks down his thighs, cooling in the air of the room, wet and uncomfortable, there’s the smash and splinter of wood giving as the floodgates inside do the same and tears spill hot and uncontrollable down his cheeks.

 

“Motherfucker,” Pete snarls, fist a blur as it connects with Michael’s cheek. “He’s _mine_ , you hear me? Fucking _mine –_ ”

 

Patrick screams words that don’t make sense as he yanks on his shorts then drags Pete away, slams him to the wall as Joe and Andy crash in like they think they can make a difference. Michael is gone, just the throb in Patrick’s ass and the wet leak of him a reminder that anything actually happened. Pete’s face is slick with the same salt that burns Patrick, his lips twisted in fury as his eyes dull with pain that he has no right – no fucking right at all – to lay claim to. The betrayal, the fury, the jealousy that burns like salt into a wound – those are Patrick’s, _all_ Patrick’s.

 

_Only_ Patrick’s.

 

And as the confusion and madness unfold around them, as the shouting scrapes four throats raw with bitter accusations, all Patrick can do is hope she was worth it.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We might be about to take a few dark turns. I hope you guys will stay with me and _remember the tags_...
> 
> Kudos are lovely and comments are awesome!
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) if you wanted to say hi.


	13. Everything I've done, I've done for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things continue to unravel...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> This week's chapter title is taken from... you know what? This is a biggie, points to anyone that gets it right WITHOUT Googling. 
> 
> Thanks again to laudanum_cafe for checking over everything for me, she's the best!

Patrick shivers under his jacket, knees tucked close to his chest. He hasn’t really spoken since the shouting stopped, since he yanked his jeans back on and loaded the gear silently into the van. Pete is up front with Andy, screaming his drama at the world around him as he shakes and cries like nothing was ever his fault. Andy drives in silence and ignores him. Joe sits on the bench in front of Patrick, eyes focussed on the window. It’s dark, there’s nothing to see but the ghostly spectre of his own reflection staring back at him. Patrick supposes it’s as good an excuse as any not to look at _him._

 

There’s a dull ache between his cheeks, like that first night with Pete but worse. At least there was lube that time. There’s that same stickiness though, the same leak of viscous fluid that damps the back of his underwear uncomfortably and makes him shift against the upholstery like he can escape it if he just finds the right position against the stained leatherette.

 

Homesickness washes over him in waves, the power of it turning him inside out and threatening to drown him in tears. He bites them resolutely into the plush of his lower lip - that asshole will _not_ see him cry again. He wants his mom, wants Will, wants Chicago and his bedroom and the safety of familiarity to surround him. He’s pathetic - he gets that - but he’s had enough and more of the bullshit Pete seems determined to toss his way.

 

“... Like I don’t even fucking _matter,”_ Pete rants from up front, hands snagging in his mohawk, swirled in shadows as they roll in and out of the glow of passing street lights. “Like he can just do whatever the fuck he wants. I hate him - I fucking _hate_ you, Patrick - I just… I can’t…”

 

Like Pete doesn’t matter? Patrick can conjure the curve of Pete’s ass every time he closes his eyes, he could sketch from memory the way his jeans pooled around his ankles to gather gravel and dust from the parking lot. He could trace the line of her thighs, can vividly picture the colours in the plaid of her skirt. But somehow _Patrick_ is the bad guy, he’s the one that’s done wrong.

 

“Oh, shut the fuck _up,”_ Joe snaps. “That’s total fucking _horseshit_ , man. Just shut your fucking mouth, Pete.”

 

“Let me out,” the door handle rattles like he’d roll onto the freeway if Andy doesn’t listen, like he’d bounce down onto asphalt and agony. Like he’s the victim ready to martyr himself for his cause. “Pull over, I’ll find my own way back to Chicago just… I’m fucking _done_ with his fucking bullshit.”

 

Patrick’s bullshit? Because Patrick was the one that went and found the first warm hole to sink his dick into, the one that stroked Pete’s hair and whispered adoration into his ear only to fuck someone else twelve hours later. Fuck that. But he won’t speak, won’t yell back, just presses down into the seat and pretends he’s somewhere - _anywhere_ \- else but the backseat of a van rolling towards LA, days from home.

 

Patrick presses the curves and angles of his knuckles into his eye sockets, feels the burn of it and watches his vision splash and blur with streaks of technicolour. It swirls behind his eyelids like an abstract canvas that expands and contracts in time to Pete’s agonised howling. He wants it to stop; Pete, the van, the band, _everything_ , wants it all to smash to a halt that hurls him into something solid, something that doesn’t move. He wants to stammer to rest against the wall and feel it ache down into his bones because although the shatteringly sudden lack of movement might hurt at least the tailspin can’t get any worse.

 

He shudders down under his jacket a little further as Andy snaps at Pete to stop being fucking ridiculous, as Joe yells at everyone to just shut the fuck up. Bile stings his churning stomach, a gag tripping the back of his tongue that he chokes down, nails bitten bright into the tender skin of his wrists. He can still feel the shudder of hips that weren’t Pete’s, the slide of an unfamiliar cock against his hand, a tongue tracing places Pete’s never did.

 

 _Why the fuck_ didn’t he grab a condom? They were right there in his pocket, tucked there for the just-in-case of a stolen moment with Pete, for a piss-stained bathroom or sweat-dank room, what did it matter if there was _them?_ Lips biting kisses to smooth necks as hands grasped with greed at skin hidden under dirty jeans that smelled of unwashed denim and dirt. Whispered words that sung with praise and glory for one another, worshipping at the altar of their own private church. Tears threaten to blind him, blur his vision even behind his glasses and he bites a sob into his knuckles. He _won’t_ fucking cry.

 

Instead he keeps his eyes closed and counts his breaths, pays attention to the way his ribs move under skin and muscle, the way his shoulders roll slightly with each exaggerated inhale-exhale. He listens to the thumps of the highway beneath them, the way the van judders with a pothole until he thinks he’s pulled his heartbeat in time. It’s like music, he decides, like perfect orchestration and it’s all he needs, for his lungs to keep rising and falling, his heart to keep beating, nothing else matters.

 

And when the shouting grows too much, when Pete’s furious, jealous rage becomes more than he can bear, he scuffles on the floor for his duffle bag and yanks out his Walkman. He slips the headphones over his ears and hits play, it doesn’t matter where on the tape, or what the song is, all that matters is that it makes Pete _stop._ His ears hum with the ring of it, with the lyrics and wailing guitars that howl like bitter tears.

 

He tucks his knees up a little tighter, hugging them close like he can sink away to invisibility, just slide into blissful nothingness as the tears burn their way over, silent and stinging.

 

_You shut your mouth, how can you say, I go about things the wrong way, I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does_

 

Somewhere along the charcoal ribbon of highway that feels more and more like falling down a rabbit hole, he slips away into exhausted, blissfully dreamless sleep.

 

~*~

 

LA sparkles with promise and magic.

 

If Glenview is the muted safety of a John Hughes movie then LA is the big budget action picture, the one with the explosions and the beautiful women and heroes that speak in snappy one liners. It shimmers with something indescribable, something Patrick can’t define or explain as he stares out of the window and watches the city roll by.

 

Pete won’t look at him - at least that’s what he assumes, it’s hard to tell when he won’t look at Pete either. Fury and betrayal jolt back and forth between them like an unsatisfying Atari game, hurt humming through the van that neither will address directly. Pete’s screamed himself raw and Patrick’s done - he’s _so_ fucking _done_ \- with being the one that accepts empty apologies. So instead, he tucks himself up on the seat, heels tucked in tight and arms around his knees as he leans his cheek against the glass and distracts himself with LA.

 

At the venue it feels as though the stage is setting up around him. It’s like the pale hands unwinding cables and taping them into place with exacting precision belong to someone else entirely, the dissonant sense of watching his reflection move without his input. He feels oddly detached, some part of him left behind in a room drenched in sweat and the slap of skin against skin. He wishes it could have been Pete, wishes the hands against his hips were honeyed gold, the voice in his ear sharp with the bite of Chicago.

 

Oh, Michael was sweet to him, he can’t blame the guy for doing exactly what he asked for. He just wanted to know the appeal, to understand what Pete found so irresistible about the body of a stranger. So far, all Patrick feels is cheap, all he can taste is self-disgust brightly bitter at the back of his tongue. He doesn’t get it, but wonders if maybe it would’ve been different if he wasn’t in love with Pete. He craves the motel they’re booked into after the show, desperate with the need to crawl under the hot spray and scrub away the smell of someone else’s sweat, the sticky residue that lingers on his thighs. He wants to burn away the shame of it, the knowledge that he’s fucked up _yet again_ , the reminder that he’s nothing more than a _dumb fucking kid._

 

He wonders, as he secures duct tape to his mic stand - absent and distracted - if this is how adults really behave. If maybe it’s the immaturity Pete keeps accusing him of that makes him struggle to understand why fucking around behind his boyfriend’s back could ever make him feel anything other than worthless. There could be an apology to deliver, he ponders it as he sticks guitar picks to the tape, neat and regimented and always an even number, but if there is, it won’t fall from his lips first. Pete took the first swing at their relationship, he was the first to plunge the knife between Patrick’s shoulder blades and Patrick will _not_ take responsibility for tugging it loose and shoving it into Pete’s heart.

 

“You okay?” Andy’s hand falls onto his shoulder in reassuring solidarity, the squeeze of it warm and - although he tries not to - he feels tears burn salt-bright at the corners of his eyes. He’s nowhere close to okay right now. He shakes his head silently, biting the need to sob into his lower lip, huffing stuttered breaths down into his chest as he stares at the floor. “It’s just one show, okay? You can do this.”

 

“But it’s not _just one show_ , is it?” Patrick scrapes the toe of his boot against the stage, watches the way he carves an arc of ground down dust to stretch like the passage of a shooting star - can he make a wish? Is it too late? “It’s Greg Ginn and - and SST. I don’t know what I want.”

 

“We’d ditch him before we’d ditch you,” Andy murmurs. Patrick doesn’t want to flick a glance at Pete but can’t seem to help the way his head twitches to watch him, to see the way he lounges against the back wall with a cigarette between his lips, hands trembling as he blows blue-grey smoke to curl like a halo around him. He shakes his head once more.

 

“He needs this,” he shrugs delicately as his throat burns with the effort not to cry - why can he still just see _them_ pressed against the van, every time he closes his eyes, every time he _blinks?_ “I’m not sure I do. Gotta take a piss.”

 

He doesn’t. But if he has to meet the kind understanding tinged with _I told you so_ in Andy’s eyes for a moment longer he’s going to break down and never stop. The dam he’s built up is so tenuous, crafted from nothing more than sand and hope, and the flood behind it slams and crashes like a storm against his chest. He staggers on feet that don’t feel real to the bathroom hidden down a hallway, slamming the door behind him and bracing over the toilet to cough up what little he managed to eat at lunch. Bile burns the back of his throat to mingle with the bitterness of pointless tears he knows he has no right to shed.

 

When was Pete ever any different?

 

He takes a mouthful of water from the faucet that tastes metallic and sharp, he rinses and spits down the sink and then - for the first time in forty-eight hours - he meets his own eyes in the mirror. He looks wrecked, the blue of his iris ringed with red where he’s spent hours scrubbing at his eyes, the shadows beneath left deep and dark against the pallid pale of his skin. He looks sticky and clammy, nervous sweat prickling his brow and staining the armpits of his shirt, the smell of it sour and unpleasant. There’s guilt etched on his face and it’s… it’s not fucking _fair_. He only retaliated, he shouldn’t feel guilty. He just lashed out, it wasn’t his fault. It was -

 

The door swings open behind him, the reflection of it warped in the shitty mirror. A flash of dark hair over skin like warm caramel, arms swirled with ink and the smell of cigarette smoke sharp in his nostrils. Pete doesn’t look at him as he crosses to the urinal and unzips his pants. Patrick’s stomach cramps with the urge to throw up once again, or maybe it’s the urge to kiss him, he’s just not sure any more.

 

Pete finishes, whistling under his breath as Patrick watches him warily in the mirror, unsure if he should stay or leave or just curl into a ball in the corner of a stall and wish himself back to Illinois. Maybe if he clicks his heels together three times…

 

Pete moves to the sink next to him, washes his hands and takes a moment to adjust his hair in the mirror, to straighten the way his tank sits against his shoulders. Patrick scrapes his nails against the porcelain, squeezes it in useless fists until his joints ache with the effort. He still isn’t sure if Pete will ignore him completely or sock him in the jaw. His stomach aches as he wills him to do something - anything - because even the bloom of a bruise to match the one that thickens Pete’s lower lip would be better than being ignored.

 

He turns to leave, pivoting on the heel of his battered Converse and striding for the door. Patrick’s chest burns raw, stinging with hysterical sobs that threaten to fight their way up and out. Pete can’t do this. He _can’t_ , he needs to do something, say something, acknowledge Patrick in some way… He reaches for the door and Patrick slumps over the sink, head dropped and eyes flooding.

 

“You happy now?” Pete asks softly. Patrick’s head snaps around so fast his neck aches and burns with it, the miserable shake of his head the only answer he can offer. Those are the first words Pete’s spoken to him since the screaming in Albuquerque. “Why’d you do it, man?”

 

“Why did you?” Patrick snaps back, anger scorching his edges black and twisted as he scowls into amber eyes. “Why the _fuck_ did you?”

 

“You were supposed to be better than me, Patrick,” he’s not sure what stings more, the words or the fact that - for the first time - Pete called him _Patrick_ and not _Baby P_. It’s something else, another layer of formality between them that rings with the truth that they’re no longer a thing.

 

“You never told me I was the keeper of your fucking morals,” Patrick snarls as fury courses through him as bright and bitter as blood. The urge to throw a punch is back until his fingers itch with it. He folds them over his belt buckle and stares at anything but Pete, determined he won’t allow his emotions to take control again. “It wasn’t up to me to be better than you. You just had to keep your dick in your pants.”

 

There’s a poster taped to the door behind Pete, its edges ragged and torn, the surface covered in scrawled jokes and lewd pictures. It’s a reminder to use a condom, that final word on safety to the men leaving the bathroom to go have a good time, a gentle reminder to turn around and slip fifty cents into the dispenser by the sinks. His ass still kind of aches, the poster setting a sharp throb there as panic crawls through his chest.

 

Probably fine, he reminds himself. If he ever took the risk, he took it with Pete anyway.

 

“You don’t get it,” Pete gusts a sigh so full of sadness that Patrick wants to take him in his arms and will it all away, to make it okay with kisses stolen in the back of the van but the image of _her_ crashes through him like lightning. His stomach cramps again and he wonders, hot and flushed, if he’ll make it to the stall or just throw up over the floor at their feet.

 

“You’re right,” he chokes around a sob and tears he won’t shed in front of Pete. “I don’t get it. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

 

Pete just stares at him for a second or two, head shaking slowly from side to side as a sneer curls the corner of his lips. Patrick won’t look away even though it’s agony, won’t drop his eye contact even though it feels as though it’s burning him. He just gazes back, chin tipped up defiantly as he silently wills Pete to say something to make it better, the apology that makes it alright.

 

“Why don’t you figure it out yourself,” he snarls instead, the door slamming closed behind him and the poster firing a sharp accusation that kicks Patrick in the chest.

 

He won’t break down.

 

They finish setting up and head out for something to eat, the three of them talking around him with voices that don’t seem quite in key. He pushes his burger around and tries to remember how he held it together in Flagstaff. It was less than twenty-four hours ago but it feels like a lifetime, the way he’d stood on the stage and felt like he was watching himself from someplace else, a puppet master twitching the strings of the scared kid under the lights.

 

The kids still roared along with them and he’d forced himself to smile, to sing and play and pretend it was okay. There was no nudge of Pete’s shoulder to his, no sun-bright smiles or trailing fingertips. He splashes his hot cheeks with cold water and risks a final glance in the mirror as he wipes away the excess with the hem of his shirt. It’ll be fine.

 

~*~

 

It’s not fine.

 

Patrick’s heart is a messy throb in the centre of his chest, pulsing wet and out of time with the stuttered drag of his lungs as they fight desperately to claim oxygen from the thick, sweat-heavy fug that surrounds them. The room is packed, the press of it dark and dangerous, the hysterical hum of voices that jar and scrape his ears raw. His guitar doesn’t feel right, the strap biting into his shoulder and the hang of it against his body all wrong. Maybe it’s _him_ that’s wrong.

 

“One minute guys,” someone calls out. “Have fun out there!”

 

Fun? Patrick’s pretty sure he’s going to pass out or puke.

 

A hand slips into his and squeezes gentle reassurance and, for a moment, his heart soars, eyes swivelling to meet spark-bright swirls of amber. Joe smiles back, encouraging and soft, withdrawing his hand carefully as he whispers under his breath, “You can do this, dude.”

 

He nods weakly as someone sends three sharp flashes of a flashlight beam to the soundbooth at the back, as a hand finds the small of his back and urges him towards the stage with a hiss of _you’re on_. He’s not ready, not even close to ready, as he trips on fumbling feet out into the glare of the stage lights, surrounded by the roar of more kids than he’s ever stood in front of. He can barely see the third row beyond the crippling brilliance of the lights in his eyes, around the blissful blur that not wearing his glasses always provides. It’s almost-anonymous but not quite and nowhere close to enough to stop the ache in his chest as Pete leans into his mic with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

“What the fuck is up Los Angeles! We’re motherfucking Fall Out Boy, let’s hear you fuckin’ _scream!”_

 

They do, loud and desperate and fit to burn their throats raw. Patrick’s heart pounds, lungs struggling to draw in anything close to enough air until he’s panting, eyes wide and panicked as he stares down at his boots. The drums thrash to life behind him, Joe’s guitar screeching above them like storm clouds torn apart by merciless lightning. Pete streaks away from him in his peripheral vision, bass line thrumming below it all like thunder, the beat of it jarring with Patrick’s stuttering heartbeat. He should be playing, should be singing but they’re halfway through the opening verse before he fumbles to start, voice flat, guitar all wrong as his fingers hit none of the right notes.

 

For the first time in his life, the music evades him, each note slipping through his fingers like so much sand to pool on the stage beneath him. His voice catches and slips, wrong notes, duff notes, flat, sharp - wrong, wrong, _wrong._ By the third song the crowd has turned dangerous and he can’t pull it back, he’s forgetting the words, forgetting the melody, forgetting why he ever thought he could stand on a stage in front of anyone and get them to care. He’s a poser, a fraud and a fake, everything the real punks sneered at him in VOID. He’s pathetic.

 

Self-doubt doesn’t make anything flow any easier, Joe’s hand is on his shoulder as Pete takes a moment between songs to try and claw it back, to use some of that smooth talking patter to win back the crowd.

 

“You okay?” Joe asks desperately, the urge to tell Patrick to get his shit together clearly lingering on his lips as he grips into the flesh of Patrick’s shoulder like a warning. “What’s going on?”

 

“I’m fine,” Patrick snaps, shoulder dropped to twist away from Joe. That means turning back towards the crowd, the painful brightness of the lights and the rumble of heckling that stirs them all uneasy.

 

“Fucking faggots,” someone yells from the throng, a beer bottle hurtling out of the glare to thump harmlessly off Patrick’s shoulder.

 

It’s the wrong thing to say, Pete moves like a whirling rage of fury, bass slammed to the floor and screaming feedback through the speakers as he clears the stage in three easy strides, leaping from the edge to vanish into the fray with a roar of _fuck you, asshole._ He lands on the guy with a grunt and in that split second, the moment he swings the first punch to connect with the jaw of a stranger, the place erupts.

 

Andy is over the drum riser, shirtless and painted with anger, before anyone can stop him, hurling himself to follow Pete into the crowd. Patrick stares, frozen, eyes wide as he watches insanity escalate around him. His stomach churns and he wonders if he might throw up again as a security guard plunges into the pit. He grabs Pete under the arms and lifts him bodily onto the stage - still swinging, still spitting fury at the world around him - shoving him back and away as he tries to dive back in again.

 

He’s battered and bloodied, eye swollen, nose sparkling red like rubies as it drips to his shirt, a bruise across the crest of his cheekbone blooming bright and burning. Patrick watches in silence as Pete slams the heel of his shoe against the neck of his bass so hard the wood splinters and cracks. He watches him kick the remnants hard against an amp in blind fury. He watches him spit crimson onto the stage as he snarls a final curse then Andy is back beside them and Pete is gone, twisting away from the stage and the lights and devastation around them that seems like a riot.

 

He turns to find Joe, seeks out the wide blue of his gaze across the stretch of stage between them, lip trembling as he murmurs an apology over the sound of the room flooding with security, filling with police, the stage lights dropping as the house lights rise.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters, sure Joe can’t possibly hear him as he glances away to survey the world collapsing around them. He doesn’t get an answer and flicks his eyes back to meet Joe’s, hoping for a reassuring smile, a shrug, anything.

 

Joe’s already gone.

 

Twenty minutes later they stand backstage, damp and shivering in their still-wet stage clothes, Pete still bleeding into the front of his shirt. Patrick closes his eyes and wishes with every fibre that holds him together, that makes him real and tangible, to be elsewhere. Greg Ginn stands in front of them, vibrating with fury that rolls from him hooked to vicious words.

 

“Unprofessional, unprepared, a fucking _joke,”_ he snaps, already shrugging into his jacket. “You think I make a fucking habit of getting guys like you out here? You think this is what I do for fucking _fun?_ Provincial kids from the Midwest, I should’ve known better. Either that demo isn’t you or you just don’t give a shit. You’ve got thirty minutes to get your sorry asses off the premises, then I’m calling the pigs, now get the fuck out of here.”

 

They’re packed into the van in less than twenty, a jumble of balled up cable, barely dismantled drums, haphazardly stacked amps and four silent boys, determined to look at anything but one another.

 

~*~

 

It takes four days to get back to Chicago.

 

Four days of strained silence and awkward non-start conversations.

 

Four days of staring out of the window at the skyline rolling back, of curling up on the cold of the bench and _craving_ a warm body to press into. Four days of listening to a parade of local radio stations blasting country rock. Four days to stew and mull and talk himself in circles.

 

He’s exhausted when they pull up the curb outside of his house, the red brickwork never more inviting, his mom’s Mercedes a sight he’s craved. He shoulders his duffel bag as Joe idles the engine, pauses before he drags the door closed behind him.

 

“I’m done guys,” he shrugs, heart breaking as the words fall from his lips, as he converts his thoughts to a reality. “I tried but… I can’t do this. Not anymore. Good luck with everything but… I’m out.”

 

He drags the door closed and turns on his heel before anyone can see him cry. For a long moment the van doesn’t move, he can just hear the engine ticking over behind him. He wonders if Pete might shout, might climb out of the van and apologise and - please, God - they can make everything okay. He pauses, head cocked, halfway down the driveway and prays with every part of himself that doesn’t actually believe, for a hand on his shoulder and lips against his.

 

Behind him, the van guns back into life and roars away down the street. He won’t look back - he fucking _won’t_ \- the tremble of his lower lip nipped tight between his teeth as he crashes through the door and to the relative safety of his room. He fumbles with shaking fingers as he dials Will’s number, as he holds the phone close and tries to breathe some rhythm back into his racing pulse.

 

“Hello?” Mrs Beckett’s voice is as warm as his own mom’s, as well known and just as familiar, the voice that’s soothed Patrick through scraped knees and schoolyard squabbles for over a decade.

 

“Mrs Beckett, hi,” he begins softly, betrayed by the tremor that shakes his voice. “Can - can I… I mean… Is Will home?”

 

“Patrick, is that you?” she says and he nods eagerly although he knows she can’t see him. “I’m sorry honey, he’s not home right now. He’s out on a date with Sarah, do you know her? Such a nice girl. Anyway, I’ll tell him you called, okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick’s stomach lurches hard to one side, the tears blurring thick enough to blind him as his voice cracks. “Bye.”

 

With a snarl that stings his throat, he slams the stupid hamburger phone as hard against the wall as he can. It cascades into a pretty fall of colourful plastic, gouging paint from plaster and scattering across floor in so many pieces. He has no right to ache the way he does, it’s not his place to play pretend that he hasn’t done this a dozen times and more to Will.

 

But the heart is a being drive wholly by desire and there’s a chasm of difference between how he knows things are and how he wants them to be.

 

Patrick curls to his side, pillow that still smells of Pete clutched to his chest, as he cries for all the trip was supposed to be, everything that stretched out before him snatched away. He cries until his eyes sting and his chest aches and his bedroom door cracks open with a shaft of light that bisects his floor like the fucking yellow brick road.

 

“Patrick, sweetheart?” his mom calls softly, entering the room on wary feet, stooping to gather dirty socks with a sigh. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” he rasps. A fresh sob hiccups from him. “No.”

 

“Oh, honey,” she finds the edge of his mattress and draws him into a hug. She smells of Chanel perfume, of hairspray and setting lotion, of being five and falling from the monkey bars, his blood staining her shirt as she carried him into the emergency room. She fixed it then, maybe…

 

“I messed up, mom,” he cries into his knees, the agony of the past week tearing him apart. “I messed up so bad and now… they all hate me and Pete… he can’t stand me because there was this guy and…”

 

He shakes with sobs again, burning salt shining bitter on his tongue as he hiccups and shudders his way through them, as he waits for her to realise what he is, what he’s done. Instead she squeezes with reassurance.

 

“You and Pete broke up?” she questions gently. He snaps his head up to look at her warily, she smiles her reassurance with a kiss to his brow. “I’m your mother, you think I didn’t realise?”

 

“Yeah, I mean... No?” he shrugs with a sigh that shakes him to his very core, head leaned against her shoulder as she strokes his hair. “I guess.”

 

“You want to come and watch Dynasty with your uncool mom?” she offers. He shakes his head - he’s lying, he’d fucking _love_ to curl up on the couch with his mom right about now. “We can order take out…”

 

“Chinese?” he asks hopefully, chest still aching when he thinks of sharing cartons of noodles with Pete. She nods with a laugh, hand soft in his hair.

 

He can’t tell her everything, not about Pete and the girl, about Michael and the ache he left behind, not the way Greg Ginn had looked at him, or how Joe had refused to meet his eyes. But he can curl on the couch with her under a blanket, eat Chinese food and pretend the past few months never happened.

 

Patrick’s getting good at pretending.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are so appreciated, so if you wanted to leave those I'd be very happy.
> 
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	14. When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a conversation takes place...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it is Wednesday already? Crazy.
> 
> Big thank yous to laudanum_cafe for proofreading, as always! This week's chapter title is taken from Dirty Dancing, enjoy!

Life goes on.

It’s familiar despite its differences – the break to his rhythms and patterns – not quite the same as before but really not that _unusual_. There’s school and homework, obviously, nights filled with music from his record player instead of his band. There’s visits to Coconuts and the movies and the other things he hasn’t done in months, things that feel strange and disjointed and not a quite a part of him anymore.

There’s less of Will, and what little there is comes accompanied by Sarah from chem class. They giggle and whisper together on the other side of booth seats at the diner, angle away from him at the theatre to share their own private world together, they kiss and hold hands and share jokes he isn’t part of. Patrick would hate her if he had the energy.

He buys a four-track player. Nothing fancy, just an off the shelf Tascam Portastudio from Walmart. He devotes a Saturday to setting it up, to tinkering with it until it’s just right in the safe silence of the basement that once rang with Pete and Joe and Andy but now breathes only with Patrick. The last one left – or the one that got away – he just isn’t sure which category he falls into.  What he _does_ know is that he still has Pete’s notebook, still has a guitar, his drums and a crappy practice bass Pete left behind like an epitaph to their relationship. There’s even a trumpet from his marching band days to add a ska flair to a couple of tracks.

He has Pete’s poetry, scored out in ink rather than the flow and loop of it against his skin, words written and committed to paper instead of emotions and needs and wants hung on pretty lips and pressed to aching flesh. It’s not the same, it doesn’t even come close, but Patrick can convince himself it’s close enough. He drags them together, a witty phrase here, a cutting barb there, drawn down and pulled in like puzzle pieces, like the rhythmic pattern of assembling a drum kit. He layers them together and fits them just so until they stare back at him like grim reminders of everything he did wrong, every faltered touch, every word that jarred between them.

It’s a love song and a curse.

It’s the kiss of knuckles to tender skin.

It’s the teeth sinking into his neck as his world shakes apart and Pete cries his name on stuttering breath whispered soft in a sweat-damp Edsel.

_Show me, show me, show me a starry-eyed kid, I, I, I will break his jaw, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t let him get his hopes up, no, oh, and I will save him from himself, here’s a picture with a note “no don’t turn out like me,” it’s only for your own good no, oh…._

He records it with fury in his veins and fire on his tongue, spits damp and painful down the microphone until he aches with the unfairness of it, with the knowledge that he’ll never be the starry-eyed kid again. Pete saw to that, tore him down and made him nothing, exposed him to the things he thought he’d wanted and the emotions he never wants to feel again. He took a boy – sharp mouth, soft heart – and moulded him into something bitter, something unpleasant and twisted with a stinging ache in his chest, an open wound in need of the familiarity of tender touch, the kind only Pete can deliver.

Maybe he’ll send him a cassette.

Headphones slung over his ears, he dabs at the sweat on his brow, mops the sting of it from his eyes as it runs and burns. He’s had a fever for a couple weeks now, the heat of it flaring his skin at night, burning him from the inside until he’s chattering teeth and ringing ears, arms curled around himself as it gives way to chills that shake him half mad. His back aches, shoulders too, neck stiff and cramped like he’s spent the night crunched up on the couch. A bug he picked up somewhere on the tour no doubt, an inconvenience he can’t quite shrug off. An irritating reminder of the two weeks he’d really rather forget.

The phone rings upstairs, the bright trill of it cutting through his haze of careful clicks on the four-track player, intruding through the trickle of notes that soothe his senses. He pushes his headphones down, slings them around his neck as he waits, head cocked hopefully, for his mom to call down, for her to tell him it’s Joe or Will or… Pete. She doesn’t. The low hum of her conversation finds him down the twist of the basement steps though the details elude him. The call isn’t for him, that’s all that matters.

He reminds himself that he told them to leave him alone, whispers encouragement like a rousing rabble chorus of his own creation that this is what he asked for. He quit, he walked away and he meant it, the atmosphere too toxic, the forced closure in small places with Pete too much for his battered and bruised heart to take. It still hurts that Pete just rolled with it, took him at his word and stayed the fuck away. Where are the pebbles against his window? Where are the whispered declarations on honeyed words called to his bedroom late at night? The sweat and skin of the backseat of the car where they exchanged their vows together and swore that they were something more?

Pete didn’t mean it, that much is clear, never meant it and never will, never could. Empty platitudes and pretty words dressed up as something other than lies that sting Patrick raw, that twist his gut and make his chest tighten. He’s just a dumb fucking kid – he gets that, he _understands_ – but for a time, he’d thought he could be _Pete’s_ dumb fucking kid, his Baby P, his golden boy. Life’s a bitch.

He tugs the headphones back over his ears with a sigh, closes his eyes and slams up the volume as though he can wash away the hurt with a pounding bass line and drums that thrash through him like wildfire. Just another hour, he promises himself, another hour of tinkering and fine tuning, of working the track into something as close to perfect as he can get it on his shitty little home setup. If he can perfect the track then he has a reason to talk to Pete, just to hand it over, a parting gift if the band is even a thing anymore.

He’s so engrossed in what he’s doing, so focussed on pulling everything until it’s perfect, until it’s just so, he doesn’t hear the creak of the third step from the bottom. The first thing he sees is jeans, painted to lean thighs, slashed and torn with wear and hours spent rolling on dusty floors in sweaty rooms. There’s a leather jacket above them – _Patrick’s_ leather jacket that he left in the van – aviators even though it’s November, pushed up into the mess of an un-styled mohawk that falls against the line of his brow. Lips tuck up into an apologetic smile, shoulders rolling in a shrug as he hovers by the couch, cast from something unsure and uncertain.

“Hey, Baby P,” he murmurs, like he was just passing by. “How’s it going?”

Patrick coughs weakly into the back of his hand, grateful to buy himself some time to calm the wet, pulsing mess of his heart in his chest, to work some moisture against dry lips, dry throat as he stares at Pete with eyes he’s sure are wide with uncertainty. Pete seizes silence like an invitation, slipping onto the couch next to him, close but carefully apart, inches measured as though they’re miles between their thighs as he reclines back against the cushions. Patrick thinks he hears the basement door close above them.

“I wrote a song,” he blurts, for want of anything better to say, stupid syllables trickling hot and sticky from his tongue as he fiddles with the player, anything to avoid Pete’s knowing gaze cast in copper. “For the band. If you guys want it. I mean, it’s pretty shitty and all, and I just did what I could on this faggy little Portastudio but, like, I think it has some potential, maybe? I just thought, you know, you guys could maybe - ”

“We’d rather have our singer,” Pete cuts him off with gentle care and tender warmth, voice soft with something Patrick’s heard before. Mostly, he’s just glad Pete stopped him from rambling. “We miss you, P. All of us but… mostly me. Practice isn’t the same without you.”

Patrick stares at his hands and sees them smeared in blood – Pete’s blood – feels the ache in his knuckles from the times he’s driven his fist into skin and bone. Pete’s never hit him back – fuck, _why_ has he never hit him back? – taken each punishment with nothing more than crimson spat to the tarmac between them. Like he knew he deserved it. As though the burn of knuckles to his skin was the only way to pull him back from his self-appointed precipice of self-destruction. But – here’s the thing – Patrick still _hurts_ , it still aches in his chest when he thinks of Pete sliding inside of someone else, possessing them in the ways he swore would only happen with Patrick. So, he stares at his hands in silence, bites humiliation into his fingernails and waits for Pete to come up with something a little closer to an apology.

A warm hand finds the small of his back, slips under his stupid, preppy Calvin Klein sweatshirt to score a melody into the clammy stretch of his skin. He jerks away, twisting to the far corner of the couch on impulse with his knees drawn up like they can defend him, like they can keep him safe. Oh, he knows – he gets it, okay – that it’s a dick move, that he does it just to see the flash of hurt in the copper-gold depths of Pete’s eyes. But he doesn’t care if it’s petty, couldn’t give a shit if it’s childish, this time – oh, this time – he won’t cave quite so easily.

“I can’t touch you?” Pete asks, quiet hurt in his voice, hand stretched to touch the couch cushion that stands between them, a no mans land of mustard yellow velour. Patrick shakes his head fervently, because – and he swears this is true – he’s not as fucking stupid as he once was, not as ridiculously naïve. He knows his limitations and he knows the moment he gives Pete an inch he’ll proceed to help himself to a mile. He knows he’s not strong enough to stop him. “You know, I don’t recall us actually breaking up…”

“You fucked someone else, asshole, get the fuck out of my basement,” Patrick snaps sharply then bites his tongue until it stings, reminding himself that he wasn’t going to lash out, he was going to let Pete talk. Pete jolts back like Patrick slapped him then leans in like he _wants_ Patrick to slap him. Patrick won’t do it, he won’t give him the out of a bruise to say it’s all settled and forgiven. “I don’t understand what you did… You want to try explaining it to me? I mean, you can get the fuck out right away once you’re done but just… enquiring minds want to know.”

“I could tell you I was thinking about you the whole time,” Pete offers after a moment of two of endless, stretching silence. Patrick’s gut twists and something sour films on his tongue. That’s the last thing he wants to hear. “But that wouldn’t be true. I was thinking of me, no one else, she was pretty and just… No one would care if I fucked her, you know?”

_“I fucking care,”_ Patrick hisses through gritted teeth, red mist rising. Pete raises a hand to silence Patrick, to defend himself from him before the blows and the insults can start.

“P, please, let me finish, just… let me think,” Pete leans forward, honey-gold hands pressed to his temples, fingers twisted into the lank fall of his hair on his brow. When he speaks again it’s like he’s far away, voice muffled, eyes hidden. “I didn’t mean you, I meant… all of _them.”_

That’s not an explanation, it doesn’t even come close to being an explanation so Patrick snorts, sharp and bitter, then sits in angry silence and waits for him to make it into one.

“Listen,” he begins. Patrick rolls his eyes – he’s been listening for _months_ , why doesn’t that asshole get it? “Just let me talk. Kids have been whispering about us for months, you know? And – and I guess… I think I just didn’t know – I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Patrick’s never heard them whisper, never heard cruel rumours buried in half-truths that burn bright through high school hallways. Then again, Patrick doesn’t really listen to the things they whisper about him, too busy trying to get through the day. It figures that Pete would have heard it though, hanging out with guys that don’t understand in a scene that isn’t ready for them. But the image of Pete fucking into her burns his vision once more and anger sweeps away understanding.

“I managed not to fuck anyone else,” he points out, blazing fury caught on the tip of his tongue.

“Not strictly true,” Pete holds up a finger to stop him objecting. “But anyway, I just… If they caught me with her, I’m a fucking stud, you know? Pete Wentz the rock star. If they caught me with _you_ we’re just the faggots and – and I guess I wasn’t ready for that. I didn’t – do you know what it would have done to the band, P? It would’ve killed us before we started.”

“You’re such a fucking _pussy,”_ Patrick snarls, anger sweeping him white hot. “I swear to God, I – ”

“No,” Pete’s fist clenches, drawn back and desperate, slamming forward. Patrick closes his eyes but he doesn’t flinch – he swears he doesn’t, he _won’t_ – but the slam is dull, the noise of knuckles into stuffing as Pete punches the couch. He blinks his eyes open uncertainly to dust motes dancing and swirling in weak winter sunlight. “Don’t you _get_ it, Patrick? Don’t you understand?”

There were a thousand things he rehearsed, so many cutting witticisms he was going to say when Pete came crawling back. Each one carefully weighted to cause maximum hurt, to leave Pete with a dropped jaw and realisation lodged hard in his chest. He would take him apart – he swears that’s what he wanted – strip him down to nothing and leave him aching. But in reality, how it actually goes down, is he shakes his head dumbly. He _doesn’t_ understand, although God knows he’s tried.

“I’m not gay,” Pete shrugs and Patrick can feel his eyes roll so hard he’s sure he’ll injure himself, lips parting with the objection already dancing on his tongue. Pete raises a hand like he can stop the words before they fall, like Patrick needs to be warded off of him. “Dude, I’m fucking _not_ , I _like_ girls. I – I fucking _love_ them. How they… the way they smell and, like, the way they’re so – all soft and… Look, you know what I mean, right? You like girls?”

“I like girls,” Patrick agrees softly, because Pete is right, girls are awesome. “But – but I fucking _loved_ you.”

“Loved?” Pete flinches down into his jacket, eyes dull and voice cracking. God help him Patrick wants to touch him, wants to lean into him and kiss him softly, reassure him that’s not what he meant. He stays silent. “You don’t anymore?”

“You were explaining this to me,” Patrick reminds him, firm and sharp. “Listen, dude, I think you need to appreciate how – how fucking _restrained_ I’m being. I, honestly, _really_ want to punch you right now. But I’m not.”

Pete bites his lip, ivory gloss shine nipping sharp at the plush curve of his lower lip. Patrick aches to touch him, to slide his hands into the lank fall of his hair – he’s coloured the clipped-short sides vibrant crimson, it brings out the honeyed gold of his skin, the amber depth of his eyes. He wants to slip onto the sinuous length of those thighs in their painted-on jeans and slide his arms around the familiar curve of Pete’s neck, to bring their lips together and forget that everything hurts. A hack of a cough shakes him weak, blurs his vision and makes his head ache and throb. By the time he’s done spluttering, any ridiculous notion of reconciliation has passed and he looks at Pete with expectation sharp in his eyes.

“Right,” Pete nods slowly, vacant half stare fixed somewhere over Patrick’s left shoulder and a smile like a wound slashed across his face but not creeping up into his eyes. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… I – I could’ve made this easy on me, you know? I could’ve met a girl and dated her and – and no one would’ve cared.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he laughs with a sting in his chest and a burn in his throat. “Go find a pretty girl, Pete. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“You don’t get it,” Pete tugs at the length of his hair, hard, like he’ll yank it out if he thinks it’ll help. “You – you’ve never had to try to figure out if the dude you’re flirting with is into it or working out when to knock your fucking teeth down your throat. You know how bad I’ve wanted to touch you sometimes? Kiss you? Just hold your fucking _hand_ and I – I fucking _can’t,_ P. I can’t and it fucking _kills_ me. So, yeah. Go ahead and just… fucking _sue_ me for wanting to make life a little goddamn easier for the both of us.”

Patrick’s wide-eyed and hurting, his chest too tight for the stretch-burn of his lungs as he stares at Pete like he might have the answers. Pete stares right back, dark eyes narrowed in accusation, like it’s all Patrick’s fault for having the audacity to be born with a dick, for being the one Pete fell for, for being the Mikey that he couldn’t push away. Mikey – Patrick’s still haunted by the name, by the boy in the bed that won’t get to be a man, not really, not in the strictest sense. There’s the reach of his hand and it’s almost unbidden, out of body – out of his goddamn _mind_ more like – as he covers the distance between hands and hearts and twists their fingers together.

“Did it work?” he asks, more softly than he feels.

“Did what work?” Pete replies, hushed soft, like their hands are made of smoke that could drift and float and never meet again if he breathes too hard.

“Did it make it easier?” Patrick prompts, heart thrumming messily in his chest as Pete leans closer, as their mouths settle inches apart, a warm hand curled around the back of his neck as Pete draws their foreheads together. He can smell the familiar scent of Pete’s breath, draw it greedily into his lungs as their eyes meet, as Pete’s lips twist into the kind of sad smile that tightens Patrick’s gut. “Pete? Please… just – just tell me, okay? Did – did fucking her… help?”

It hurts to say it out loud, to acknowledge what he saw, what Pete _did_ without a shield of bitter recrimination and fingers twisted into fists. Pete hums a breath that ghosts feather soft over Patrick’s lips. He tucks a lock of blonde hair safe behind Patrick’s ear then finds the curve of his throat with a palm rough and warm. Patrick sighs with a helpless shrug – it’s a bad idea, _such_ a fucking bad idea – waiting on the buzz of agonising anticipation that vibrates the air between them. The hand entwined with his squeezes, sure and soft, the press of muscle, skin and sinew warm comfort in the cool quiet of the room. Patrick thinks, from some distant recess of his mind, that he hears his mom’s car firing into life on the driveway, the roll of the tires as she swings out onto the street. If Pete hears it too, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“No,” Pete whispers, mouth close enough that Patrick feels the warm shift of it against his own, the pulsing power that seems to hum between them, that draws him with the fatal magnetism of a moth to a flame. “Fuck, P, no. Do you want to… fuck, I mean, don’t – don’t just say yes, you can _for real_ say no, but… You want to take on the fucking world with me, Baby P?”

The answer is delivered with lips, with the desperate clutch of fingers into hair as he drags Pete close. He moans delighted relief into the warmth of Pete’s mouth, savours the taste of him, the feel, the way he gives under Patrick’s lips with soft compliance. Teeth click and tongues test one another, the easy intimacy recovered in a moment as Pete’s hand leaves his to curl over his hip, under his sweater, the touch of skin to skin hot and fevered perfection. Patrick wants, he wants it all and more besides, he pulls back with a groan, breath robbed by the shine of Pete’s eyes, the quirk of his smile.

“Just so we’re clear,” he toys with the zipper of Pete’s jacket for a moment, voice cracking at the edges just a little. He thinks he can be forgiven for it. “This is you saying you’re coming out, right? To – to everyone?”

“Dude,” there’s a laugh teasing his words, tangled up and caught like cables. “Your mom told me if I came down here and broke your heart she’d rip my fucking dick off. I mean… I guess that’s not _exactly_ what she said but like… the subtext was there, you know?”

There’s a laugh lost to a moan as Pete’s mouth finds his once more, as he sucks the plump flush of Patrick’s lower lip between his teeth, snagging a groan that he swallows down like a whisky-burn. Hands find the hem of his stupid sweater, pulling it away as he works off Pete’s jacket, air carved into a gasp from grasping lungs as Pete’s lips close over the pink pebble of his nipple, tongues-lips-teeth working a miracle of throbbing sensation that pulses straight between his legs. They sink into a kiss once more, Patrick pushed back and down into the cushions of the couch, legs spread and wrapped around the narrow curve of Pete’s waist as he grinds up with a whine.

“P, oh God, P,” Pete sucks blistering want into the hollow of Patrick’s throat, the brush of his hair and the smell of sweat and product sharp in Patrick’s nose. “You’ve got to – got to let me fuck you. Make it right… Please…”

Patrick nods, quick, staccato and frantic, Pete’s mouth hot-wet-slick against his earlobe, bright and brilliant as their lips meet once more. Patrick wants that, too, wants the slide of Pete inside of him to erase the last trace of teenage indiscretion. He wants the last cock he’s felt buried in him to be Pete’s, not Michael’s, not the innocent interloper caught in the crossfire of Patrick’s hastily executed revenge. Patrick doesn’t blame Michael – how could he? – but he wants to forget, wants stolen moments where he can pretend it didn’t happen and Pete’s still the only one.

“My room,” he murmurs, lost for a moment in the flutter of the dark silk of Pete’s lashes against his cheeks. “Not here, come on…”

He considers it a sign of immense emotional maturity that he retains the presence of mind to shrug his sweater back on in spite of the throbbing ache between his legs. They negotiate the basement stairs on unsteady feet, tripping over kisses bitten to sweat-damp necks, to hands twining into jeans and shivered moans bright with want. In the hallway, Patrick pauses, eyes searching for the dark shadow of his mom’s car on the drive through the frosted glass of the front door, voice a hesitant shiver of unsure noise as he calls out softly, “Mom? Mom… you home?”

Silence is their invitation to climb the stairs with fingers interwoven like the promises they’ve never been able to speak out loud to one another. Pete catches him in a kiss at the door to his room, back pressed to the wall and vision filled with eyes like liquid gold, with the quiet press of soft, sweet lips and a whisper of a promise.

“I love you, Baby P,” he breathes and Patrick’s heart clenches in his chest. “I love you and I don’t give a fuck who knows anymore.”

They slip into his room wrapped in need and each other, hands snagging clothes as mouths taste and test the stretches of revealed skin, taught and smooth, soft and peppered with hair in shades of gold and jet – it doesn’t matter where, all that matters are the press of lips to heated flesh. Bare and wanting, they hit the mattress, crash together in a tangle of limbs and desires that can only be articulated with touch. Patrick’s back arches, ragged breath torn from his lungs in a cry of adulation as the heat of Pete’s mouth sinks down over his cock.

His fingers tangle in the mess of Pete’s hair, the slick of product against his fingers, following the slow bob of his mouth up and down until Pete pulls off. He keens a whine of frustration but Pete’s slides lower, tongue slicking down his shaft to catch every sensitive place, through the curl of ash blonde hair at his balls and down. Hands cup his ass, lifting him, urging him up with hips arched as Pete’s tongue finds the nerve-bright pucker between his cheeks. It’s sweet intimacy, unknown parallel, cleansing him of the memories that sting with the broad stroke of his tongue over his hole. Patrick cries out, fingers searching for Pete’s, twining their hands together against the curve of his ass as he draws his knees to his chest, unashamedly on display as Pete licks him open.

Fingers twist inside of him, one then two, pressing to hidden places that turn his thoughts to a messy pulse of colours, streaking art-bold across his vision as he groans slurred semi-sentences at the ceiling. Pete bites a bruise to the crease of his groin, the score of teeth soothed by the press of lips, mouth back between Patrick’s cheeks as he curls a hand around the leaking pillar of his prick, tears bright and burning in the corners of his eyes as he strokes a hand through the tangle of jet-dark hair between his thighs. Patrick strokes himself like a love song, thumb scoring through the flush slick of pre-come crowning the head of his cock, fingers caught around satin sensitive skin as his hips rock from fist to lips and fingers and back again.

Pete slides to Patrick’s mouth, the taste of salt and sweat and sex on his lips as they meet in a crushing kiss. Pete fumbles for his wallet, flicking through the billfold for the flash of foil with a smile and a shrug, like he doesn’t know how important it is, like it’s not a huge deal as he rips the packet and rolls the rubber over his cock. There’s something twisting in Patrick’s chest as Pete lies beside him on the bed, some throbbing ache in his gut as lube-slippery fingers find his hole, find his prostate, find the very centre of his being. He cries out, agonised ecstasy, as Pete feathers the point of pounding pleasure that beats blinding light behind his eyes. He snags Pete’s wrist and holds him still and steady, rocks his hips down and onto the willing press of clever fingers doing wicked things inside of him, sucks a bruise the stutter of Pete’s pulse point and breathes a request.

“Can I ride you?” he whispers and Pete nods like a puppet, eager and jerking as he shuffles up, wriggles back until he’s propped against the headboard, cock jutting in proud invitation as he urges Patrick onto his lap.

“Fuck, P,” Pete groans like it’s all he can say, hands stroking adoration into the line of Patrick’s hips. “Fuck…”

Patrick’s thighs tremble and shake, the shudder of it maddening as he braces over Pete, leans in to the touch of fret-rough hands against his cheeks. Pete draws him open, just a little, just enough that the blood-gorged head of his cock pushes to the tight press of his hole. His arms slip around Pete’s neck, fingers entwining in the fall of dark hair he finds there, the sweat-mist of their foreheads touching as they draw breath stolen from one another. Words tangle like thorns at the back of his tongue, thick and twisted and desperately uncooperative. He wants to tell Pete he might not be the only one, but he’s the only one that matters, that the hurt and the heartache can be swept aside for something more, that this might not turn out to be forever, but it can be enough for now.

But they snag and tie his tongue in knots, the fall of heated need slipping past his lips nowhere close to the poetry he wants to share, stuttered nonsense of _fuck I love you, I fucking love you so fucking much_ replacing sugared sweetness. Pete whispers it back, bites burning desire into his throat as slowly – oh, so slowly – Patrick sinks down onto him. Sensation shudders through him, the stretch and press of Pete’s cock spreading him open, pulling a raw moan from his lips. Hearts and hips.

Once he’s flush to Pete’s lap, the length of his cock buried deep inside of him, the bite of trembling fingertips a bruising point of reality in a room hazed with dreams. Their lips brush, tender and soft, the flicker of inquisitive tongues scoring a love song for one another as, slowly, Patrick begins to rock his hips.

He’s misted with sweat, the same damp painting Pete’s tattoos obscenely bright against his skin, drawn in fresh ink against the canvas of his skin. Patrick knows them all with a lover’s touch, the flow and lines of them, the way they feel under his tongue, sharp with the tang of salt and need. He knows the way Pete’s chest hitches in gasping breaths that give way to whispered moans, the way Pete’s stomach feels under the rub of his cock. He knows the way Pete closes his eyes, head thrown back and fingers tight in Patrick’s hair as he draws close. He knows it all in reverse, the way Pete comes apart around him when Patrick is deep inside of him, the way he strokes his cock and ruts his hips in urgent desperation.

He knows Pete. Each inch, each glorious, perfectly imperfect nuance that thrums through him and makes him who he is. He fucks his hips a little harder, drives the press of Pete’s cock a little deeper until stars lace his vision and flood him with need. There’s a hand curled around the leaking ache of his cock – his own? Pete’s? He’s not sure – stroking steady and firm as he cries out. Pete twists his hips beneath him, arching up with aching greed as their mouths crash together like colliding planets thrown out of orbit.

Two strokes, three, too much and not enough as his world washes white and his blood runs like ice fire through his veins, scorching yet frozen, shivers shaking him apart. Pete bucks beneath him, thighs tense and drawn taut as Patrick comes apart with a sob buried in the golden curve of Pete’s throat, teeth finding their mark into sinew and salt-bloomed skin. He streaks them both with the ribbon-white of his orgasm, the pearl shine of it slicked to skin and caught in the downy hair that scatters his stomach.

“Love you, fucking love you,” Pete whispers, the fucked out burn of his voice sharp against Patrick’s ear, nails sunk with shivering possession into the curve of his spine. Patrick’s fingers still tangle in the knotted, sweat-damp mess of Pete’s hair as he pulls his mouth close, as he licks over his teeth to find his tongue with a sigh of visceral relief. It’s a homecoming, sweet solace.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs, rising reluctantly to collapse to the mattress as Pete knots the condom and draws him close. They tangle together, close and needing, fingers laced as lips reacquaint, rediscover, reclaim.

His eyes are heavy, sleep washing at his edges and dragging him down as Pete draws the sheets over them, cocooning them together in a messy line of limbs and unspoken words. Maybe they’ll speak them in the morning, maybe they won’t. For this moment, Patrick is golden.

For this moment, the world can leave them behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Now, I'm going to give you a mini history lesson since laudanum flagged it up in her proofreading. Tascam Portastudios were actually pretty cool pieces of kit and not something your average 17 year old would own. They retailed in the 80s for around $1k which is about $2,200 if we allow for inflation. But, as has been explained previously, Patrick's mom is pretty wealthy and he's fairly spoilt so... suspend your disbelief for me.
> 
> Secondly, no, I don't think songs written around the FUTCT era would have been written in 1986. You need to imagine the lyrics set to something harder, to be honest in my head they're playing Pax Am Days at this point, so it sounds like that, but with those lyrics. With me? Excellent!
> 
> Finally, feedback is always appreciated so comments and kudos would be lovely!


	15. They just don't write love songs like they used to...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pete makes a decision... and Patrick is swept along with it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, how's it going?
> 
> This week's chapter title is taken from Pretty in Pink - again, I absolutely recommend this movie if for no other reason than you can see how Baby P dressed before his punk makeover in the form of the wonderful Duckie Dale.
> 
> Big thank you to laudanum_cafe for once again reading over and offering insight into the chapter for me!

_Close your eyes. It’s easy. Just breathe, in… and out, in… and out._

 

_In… and… out…_

 

_You can do this._

 

His fingernails bite painfully into the soft flesh of his palms, hard enough to mark, to leave them branded with crescents of throbbing, vibrant pink against sweat-slick skin as he twists the toe of his Chucks nervously into the floor. It’s just a show, just the kids that scream their lyrics back at them like a sacrament. It isn’t LA, won’t be like LA, it’s _nothing_ like LA…

 

Panic burns his lungs, aches him raw with fear that blurs his vision as his stomach rolls, as sweat stings his eyes and slicks his shirt to his back. He’s halfway to shucking off his guitar, to dumping it into the first pair of arms he sees and racing for the bathroom to empty what little dinner he managed to eat into the bowl. His stomach churns with it, the acidic burn of bile flooding his mouth with the bitter threat of vomit as he staggers back half a step and turns from the stage.

 

Pete smiles at him. Bright and golden as whisky, warming and sweet.

 

He’s right behind him, grinning reassurance that robs the panic of the oxygen it needs to burn faster, spread higher through his lungs and his stricken, messy-pulsing heart. A hand warm and caramel-bright cups his shoulder, chipped black nails pressing gentle care into his skin as Pete leans in and touches their foreheads lightly. Vision flooded by copper-bright tenderness, Patrick leans into the touch, _breathes_ into it, tastes the warmth of Pete’s breath against his lips as he flexes the fear-stiff cramp of his fingers against his guitar.

 

“Just breathe, P,” Pete murmurs, hand cupping the back of Patrick’s head. Patrick wonders how it looks to anyone watching them; do they see a lover’s touch, soft with the knowledge of shared intimacy? Or do they see tender friendship, the reassurance of familiarity? It doesn’t matter what they think, let them presume, let them say whatever the fuck they want, Patrick will take it all and won’t care for a moment. “You good?”

 

“I’m gnarly,” he confirms. It’s true, his heart still striking a tattoo against his ribs that shudders through him as fast and sharp as anything Andy can produce on his kit.

 

Lips touch his, tender soft and perfectly plush, flavoured with the tang of malt and sweet need. It’s brief, just a nudging kiss that speaks of soft apology for previous denials, that hums with the bittersweet promise that things have changed. Patrick pulls back, smiles his thanks into whisky eyes that leave him drunk on adoration. It’s just first time in a long time nerves, he reminds himself, the memory of standing on a stage as the crowd raged around him, the thump of the beer bottle into his shoulder. Pete blazing with anger as he dived into the crowd fired with rage, how he’d rolled back to the stage bloodied and bruised and cold with fury at everything. At everyone. At Patrick _._

 

It’s not the same.

 

This is Chicago, it’s _Evanston_ for fuck’s sake. The crowd chant for them like they’re fired with religious fervour, the rousing rabble chorus of _Fall Out Boy_ brought from lips ready to bleed for them. Patrick closes his eyes, breathes deep and slow and lets the wrap of his fingers around the fretboard, the movement of his lips as he frames lyrics and presses chords silently, soothe him soft. Finally, there’s a stutter of shine from a flickering flashlight, the empty lung hush of the room as the house lights dip and the crowd rises. Five hundred kids ready to sing their anthems, to scream their throats raw and slam themselves bruised in the swirling maelstrom of a pit Pete won’t be able to resist.

 

Patrick smiles. A twitch of lips curved down at his guitar then he glances up, pushes his hand into the press of his bandmates’ gathered fists and lets out a shout. He heaves a breath as his feet propel him forward, as he stumble-staggers up the steps and into the spotlight glow of centre stage, hand cupped to his mic. He leans into it for a moment, steadies for a moment, just _breathes_ for a moment and watches Pete takes his position to his left, skin glowing with sweat already as he roars his greeting to the crowd.

 

“We’re Fall Out Boy, motherfuckers, let’s hear you fuckin’ _scream!”_

 

As the room takes that collective breath, as oxygen fans the flames higher, faster, glowing brighter, Patrick licks his lips. As they draw to full fury in a heartbeat, as the pit swirls into life with the push-pull of undulating waves – or hips – and Joe’s guitar screams into life with the thrash of Andy’s drums and the pound of Pete’s bass, Patrick parts his lips, sucks in a breath, and he _sings._

 

Twelve songs later and they stumble from the stage, high on the buzz of restored confidence that it didn’t all fall apart in LA, that they can still _do_ this, that they work together and – what’s more – they’re _good_ at it. The crowd still hums with euphoria behind them, still buzzes with the high of a show that blew them away, that blasted them raw with the passion and fury of it. The new song was perfect, each note that tore from Patrick’s throat raw with passion and the hurt he could finally find a place for. He knows without asking that it’s found a place on their set list.

 

They laugh together as they pack away their gear, instruments and amps and cables loaded into the van precise as Tetris, perfectly stacked in the way only they know. Pete is thrumming, something close to mania glowing in his eyes, buzzing from place to place and person to person, laughing and touching, hugging this one close, pressing kisses to cheeks. Tactile, Patrick reminds himself, watching him pull a pretty girl into a tight embrace. Pete has always been tactile. His heart hammers as they don’t disentangle, as she leans into him for just a moment too long –

 

“Baby P!” he hollers with the force of a hurricane, blasting brilliance across the floor as he leaps onto Patrick, arms entwined around him as he peppers kisses to his face. It could be platonic, this is _Pete_ , but it’s so much more than he’s ever been willing to share before. It’s enough to have Patrick sagging-soft against him, leaning into the honeyed-sweetness of his shoulder as Pete claps a hand to his ass and squeezes his possession into the plush softness that Patrick still kind of hopes is baby fat.

 

Patrick decides, as they stagger across the parking lot, a tangle of arms wrapped around shoulders and the nudge of hips as they bump together, that it’s not the grand gesture he imagined. It’s not the press of lips to his on stage while Pete screamed his _fuck you_ to the masses. But it’s nice. It’s acknowledgement framed in the curl of Pete’s hand around the back of his neck, tender warmth in the way he tucks his forehead to the curve of Patrick’s neck as they sit together in the booth of a shitty diner eating waffles and drinking Pepsi from striped paper straws.

 

Later, when they’re dropped at Pete’s place and hurry to his room through the silence of the house, Patrick swallows the heat of his moans as Pete shoves him down to the bed. They’re gritty with stage sweat, grimy with the dust and dirt of it but it doesn’t matter as Pete yanks at Patrick’s zipper, as he tugs down his jeans and fumbles away his shorts until he’s bare and trembling, the pink, wet-tipped curve of his cock arching up between them. Pete grasps his hips in greedy hands and leans in, eager lips mouthing heat into Patrick’s thighs as he bites his groans into the heel of his hand.

 

“Wait,” he whispers as Pete licks a stripe over his hip, as he moves to sink his mouth over the length of Patrick’s cock that twitches approval against the warm wrap of Pete’s palm. “A condom? I think – I think we should use a condom.”

 

“P, seriously,” Pete glows, flushed and beautiful against his bed sheets. He blinks up at Patrick from eyes copper-bright and needing, mouth moving to brush the satin-soft shaft of Patrick’s cock. Patrick knots his fingers into onyx-dark hair and holds him firmly in place, his breathy chuckle sharp with need. Pete looks up, playful smile lost to frown-drawn brows as he sighs his confusion. Not annoyed – that’s important, you know? – he’s not irritated or angry, just puzzled. “Wait… You mean it?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick nods and forces himself not to give in to the flutter of breath against his prick, the way Pete’s mouth kicks off delicate heat, flush with the promise of slick-damp warmth. Because Patrick’s taken his risk with Mikey – okay, he didn’t _know_ , but does that matter now? – but he doesn’t need to take it with some faceless girl pressed up against the van. “I mean it.”

 

Pete grumbles something under his breath as he fumbles in his bedside drawer, some smartass comment about wasting a perfectly good rubber as he rolls it down Patrick’s cock and glances up with a glow of mischief fire-scorched in his gaze, “You’re lucky I love you. There’s no fucking _way_ I’d put up with your neurotic shit otherwise…”

 

He is. He’s _lucky_ Pete loves him. But nowhere near as lucky as that asshole is that it’s reciprocated.

 

Pete slides his mouth down, sucking him slow and sweet with the undulating bob of his head in Patrick’s lap. Pete does everything he knows Patrick’s loves, presses each button with delicate precision again and again. The curl of his tongue under the flare of the head might not be quite the same through the sheath of latex, the roll of his hand around the base of his shaft a little less nerve-sharp but it’s still incredible. It still sparks shocks of fluttering desire that burn low in his belly and have him twisting and gasping against the sheets.

 

He’s burnt in arched hips, carved from the unyielding press of perfect, blissful need as he bites his lip to the verge of bloody. He falls apart, shudders insensible against sheets that smell of Pierre Cardin and the musk of Pete’s skin, fingers twisted with clawed devotion into the give of well-worn cotton. Something star-bright dazzles his vision, cast with glittering precision behind the crimson darkness of closed eyelids, the pulsing throb of his cock lost to the tight heat of Pete’s throat. It’s the sink of smooth-shine teeth into the give of soft flesh tucked inside his cheek, the way his heels scrabble uselessly for purchase he can only find deep in the amber depths of eyes that smile up at him above the lips that lush-frame the swollen, twitching length of his cock.

 

Pete sucks like he’s swallowing, like he’s tasting the bitter-bright of come that should slash across his tongue like a stolen confession and not the rubber tang of latex and spermicide. He sucks until Patrick is panting objections at the ceiling above him, murmured reprimand of _fucking quit it, are you trying to take my goddamn soul or something_ as his hips squirm sensitivity into the mattress. Pete laughs around a final hard pull of his lips, a last spasming twitch of Patrick’s hips then he’s meeting Patrick’s mouth, gloriously naked whilst Patrick’s still snagged in the vice of jeans caught tight around his knees.

 

Pete’s not quite hard – the Lithium, it’s just the Lithium, no need to freak out about it like a little bitch – but he’s not quite soft either as Patrick frames him with his fist. His nails bite possessive loyalty into the perfection of the curve of Pete’s ass, the way it flows from the narrow line of his hips as he ruts into the press of Patrick’s palm.

 

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes a subtle trickle of sun-soft adulation into Pete’s ear. “Fuck I love your cock, you need to – to stop making me come in your mouth,” he didn’t, not really, it doesn’t matter, “I want – oh _fuck_ I want to… You want me to fuck you next time? Hmm?”

 

Pete groans his approval as he heats and hardens in Patrick’s hand, as the tip slicks wet with lust and need, as he moans a chant of _gonna come, gonna come, gonna come_ into the feather soft tickle of Patrick’s hair.

 

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers, pausing to lick into the hollow of Pete’s collarbone, to taste salt-sweet skin and the bitter spritz of cologne that clings to him. “That’s it, come for me, come _on_ me, want you so bad…”

 

Pete’s all hitching sobs of shuddered breath that shiver through Patrick as he stammers nonsense into his neck. There’s something poetic in the way the muscles in his abdomen draw tight, the way his spine lengthens with each deep-drawn breath that hums through him, shimmers its way into Patrick until their lungs syncopate and, Patrick’s sure, their heartbeats pick the bassline of one another like a melody. He grips his fingers a little tighter into the solid push of Pete’s ass, sinks his nails into skin satin-soft and dusted with dark hair as he strokes in all the ways he knows drag Pete apart.

 

As he rolls the heel of his palm over the bitter-slicked head of Pete’s cock on each pull, as he twists his hand in just the right way to make Pete gasp his name like a parody of prayer, he watches intently as he shakes apart. It’s there in the toss of his head, the tilt of it that exposes the flutter of his pulse to Patrick’s lips, it’s there in the imperceptible arch of his hips and the tension in his thighs. It’s a hundred or more tiny signals that Patrick knows better than he knows his own body which means he knows the precise moment to squeeze a little firmer, to whisper his _I fucking love you_ as Pete fucks into his fist with a hollow groan.

 

Then there’s white – glorious pearlized silk spun sticky across their stomachs, slick to Patrick’s hand and teeth sinking glorious heat into his throat as Pete muffles his scream in the misted need of Patrick’s skin. He drags Pete close, hauls him in as he shivers through each shuddering shockwave, whispers endearing nonsense into his ear as he whimpers and moans until they’re still and silent, stuck together with the tack of Pete’s come, the condom loose against Patrick’s soft cock.

 

They don’t move, just breathe, just draw each breath in and out as they lean into one another, shared heat in the chill of the room. Finally, with a huffed sigh, Patrick fumbles for Pete’s shirt on the floor, swiping away the cooling spatter of Pete’s come from their skin, quirking a smirk as Pete objects, slurred and thick with the sleep that nibbles his edges, “Hey, that’s a… a fucking _imported_ shirt, asshole…”

 

“Yeah, well,” Patrick drops it over the side of the bed, kicking off his jeans and tugging the condom from the damp curve of his cock. “Imagine how much more valuable it is now it’s got the fucking daddy sauce of half of Fall Out Boy all over it…”

 

“Daddy sauce?” Pete’s laugh is a sharp snort of noise in the quiet of the room, his arms around Patrick’s waist as they huddle under the sheets. “You’re fucking gross, man.”

 

“Nah, chicks dig shit like that,” Patrick squeezes Pete close, feathers kisses to the razor-rash burn of his throat as hands cast in gold twine into the damp of his hair. They fall still, just their breathing and settling of the pipes in the house beating around them. “Don’t they?”

 

“Sure, P,” Pete chuckles. “They fucking _love_ it, dude.”

 

Patrick tucks into Pete’s chest, kisses adoration into the swirl of ink that loops his collarbones, nibbling delicate bites along the line of his jaw as Pete sighs contentment like a lullaby. Patrick wonders if he might want to go again, if this time he can slip inside of him, fuck him through the mattress as he bites his screams into the down of his pillow…

 

“My mouth feels weird,” Pete mutters into the darkness, the wet smack of his against the roof of his mouth sharp in Patrick’s ear as he glances up. “Sucking dick with a rubber fucking...”

 

“Sucks?” Patrick offers with a low laugh, fingertips grazing longing into the tattoo etched bold and bright between Pete’s hipbones.

 

“Yeah,” their fingers catch and twine, pressed to the hard jut of Pete’s hipbone. A smile tugs at his lips, washed silver in the streetlight glow that floods through the open window. Pete’s eyes are sunken in shadows, impossibly dark as he pauses, Patrick can feel the words shimmering between them, watches the internal struggle play across lips still curved in a grin that rings hollow. Finally, he shudders a sigh and fixes his gaze somewhere behind Patrick, eyes locked on something that doesn’t matter while he whispers words that do. “Maybe… I mean… it’s just an idea but – but have you thought about… maybe we could get tested? You know, just… sort of, like, put your mind at ease, right?”

 

Something hitches in Patrick’s chest, some sparkling fear that blooms bright, that crushes his lungs until it’s hard to draw the next aching breath. Get tested? Just walk into the office of the nice physician who’s seen him through every childhood ailment and accident, the man who’s handed him lollipops after booster shots and given him stickers for being a good boy during check-ups? Explaining to his _mom_ why he needs a full STD screening and checking that the medical insurance covers it? He shakes his head, quick and sharp enough to jolt a burning sting up the back of his neck, bullshit, no way.

 

“I can’t,” he says, soft as the hand laced with his. “My mom – it’s… it’s just… I can’t. There’s, like, insurance and – and stuff. You know? It’s not that easy.”

 

“There’s a free clinic,” Pete points out, like that makes it easier. “Near DePaul, went there a few times when I thought I had the – the…”

 

It’s impossible to tell in the gloom but Patrick thinks Pete might be blushing, flushed pink and glowing with embarrassment. He nuzzles close, traces his lips over the heated crest of Pete’s cheekbone, mouth dropping to his ear as he whispers, words tangled up with mirth, “The clap?”

 

“Fuck off,” Pete shoves him sharp but tender with kisses peppered to lips, cheeks and throat, fingers stroking strong through the knotted tug of Patrick’s post-show hair as they breathe the heat that lingers between them. “Seriously though… we should go. Just get the all-clear then we can get rid of the stupid fucking rubbers, you know?”

 

Look, it’s not that Patrick’s an idiot, you know? He’s not. He’s fucking _not_ , okay? But there’s something to be said for lingering in the space between knowing and denying, the hovering hum of safety that comes from the _I don’t know._ If he’s safe, if he’s _careful_ , if there’s always that barrier between them and they don’t talk about it beyond the superficial complaints that the condom tastes weird or it doesn’t feel the same when they fuck then they’re okay. If they go to the clinic, the draw of crimson from Pete’s arm that could be harmless or could be tainted, unclean, _poisonous_ , if they wait for the call and sit in a badly lit office with their hands laced as a bored nurse reads the results… then he’ll _know_. And he’s not ready to know if his gamble hasn’t paid off.

 

“Baby P?” he whispers, grasp warm against the smooth turn of Patrick’s chin, his head tilted up to meet the glow of amber eyes like lamplight in the darkness, searching and brilliant. “For me?”

 

“Since when do you give a fuck about shit like this?” Patrick implores. He can’t bear it, can’t stand to find out that Pete is positive, that it’s too late, too much, his body drawn and thin on a hospital bed. Better not to know, better not to face it. “You hate condoms that bad?”

 

“Fuck yeah I do, I fucking _love_ how your cock tastes,” Pete’s groan shudders sensation down into Patrick’s dick. He’s suddenly serious once more, eyes brimmed with sincerity. “But I – I want to know. I don’t want to be… I won’t be like Mikey. Look, would you just do it for me? I… I don’t want to go alone.”

 

Wheedling words from lips Patrick’s worships, command shining from eyes he’s gazed into as pleasure hums through him, as declarations of adoration were whispered like vows between them. He can’t resist, feels the staccato jolt of his jaw as he nods, hushed in hesitance, heart a pulsing mess in his chest as his lungs try to remember just how to draw breath once again. For Pete. He can do it for Pete.

 

“Okay,” he whispers, tension sharply painful across his shoulders as he tucks his face into the crook of Pete’s neck. To hide, just for a moment, to buy sweet solitude without losing the lace of arms inked with questionable decisions around the softness of his waist. “If you care that much, sure. We can go.”

 

“Tomorrow?” Pete prompts and Patrick wants to scream, wants to snap that he’s pushed him far enough for one night and isn’t this enough? Isn’t _this_ everything Pete asked for and more? Can’t Patrick have just a day or two to process everything, to prepare for the shattering crush of his heart if the result is anything but negative? He can’t deal with this in a timeframe measured in hours and minutes but Pete presses the question through fingertips sunk into the small of his back. “P?”

 

“I have school tomorrow,” Patrick snaps, irritation bitter as blood in the clipped-sharp snap of his voice. “We can’t all lie around watching TV all day.”

 

It’s a cheap shot but Pete isn’t fazed, still smiling as he trails his fingertips down the valley of Patrick’s shine, the full body shudder embracing him with tingling need.

 

“I can pick you up,” he offers with a shrug. “It’s open late.”

 

Patrick breathes his irritation in through his nose and out through his mouth, slow and steady, tongue sticky with the taste of Pete’s mouth. Pete bites a kiss to his earlobe, lips drifting, ghosting over skin bright with nerves and tingling with anticipation of more, “Please?”

 

“What the fuck ever,” Patrick closes his eyes, determined to feign sleep as his brain pulses and glows with a tangle of fearful anticipation. “Can I sleep now?”

 

“Sure,” Pete smiles, Patrick feels the tense and pull of his lips against his forehead. “Love you, P.”

 

“Hmm,” Patrick kicks the sheets down a little, sweat still glistening on his skin as his body heat crawls higher. “Love you, too.”

 

Patrick thinks it’s kind of funny that, for once, they _both_ pretend to sleep.

 

~*~

 

“You okay?” Will asks, casually indifferent as they load their algebra textbooks into their backpacks. Patrick privately thinks Will’s is kind of childish with _Just Do It_ emblazoned in graffiti print and neon colours. Patrick traded his own preppy piece of shit months ago, swapped for a battered military backpack from the thrift store that Pete picked out, studded with pins and patches that scream a march of everything he holds dear.

 

“Fine,” Patrick smiles like a knife wound, rictus grin fixed in place that he knows doesn’t drift to his eyes. “You doing anything after school?”

 

“Sarah and I were gonna…” Patrick stops listening. Will thinks he wants to hang out, lets him down gently with vague excuses and apologies that ring hollow because he doesn’t mean them. Patrick doesn’t really care, he just wanted to make sure Will had an elsewhere to be. He tunes back in just as he’s finishing up. “But, like, if you wanted to come, that’s cool?”

 

“Nah,” Patrick shrugs nonchalantly, stomach churning as he considers throwing up in the trash basket up front. “Pete and I were gonna head into the city.”

 

“Sure thing,” Will’s already striding for the door, mind clearly crammed with the fluttering image of _Sarah’s_ timetable. Fuck, was Patrick this annoying with Pete? He supposes he was probably worse. “See you tomorrow!”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick heaves a sigh that feels like acid clawing at his lungs. “See you.”

 

He winds his way through the hallways, lingering for longer than is strictly necessary at the door of his locker, organising books and crib sheets, wasting minutes staring vacantly at nothing in particular. He doesn’t want to know Pete’s result, the thought of it terrifies him into stillness, into silent screams and lungs that don’t know how to draw in the next breath. He can’t be positive, he _can’t_ be.

 

He’s never been careful, that niggling voice whispers to him from the darker parts he tries so hard to ignore. With girls, sure, he didn’t want to knock anyone up, but guys? How many guys? Oh God, Mikey…

 

Its fine.

 

He’s fine.

 

 _Pete_ is fine.

 

Out front, Pete lounges against the side of the Edsel, leather jacket tucked tight around him in the chill of the January air. It’s already getting dark out, shadows gathering like thieves at the edges of the campus. Patrick moves towards him like he’s dreaming, feet feeling unreal and unsteady as he tries to smile but produces a grimace. Pete kisses him, just once, sweetly soft on the lips and much to the shock of the juniors walking by. Patrick ignores them, ignores everything but the solid warmth of Pete’s body against his as they slip into the car together.

 

Pete tries for bright conversation, talking endlessly about shows and songs, the lyrics he’s working on and the melody Patrick laid down that won’t get out of his head. Patrick studies Pete’s profile in the glow of the streetlights as they hurtle towards the press and crush of commuter traffic, eyes desperately searching for any sign that something might be wrong. Is he getting thinner? Paler? Are his cheekbones more prominent than they were a month ago or is Patrick imagining it? He reaches across and squeezes Pete’s hand, lacing their fingers to rest against the slashed denim, warm skin of his thigh.

 

He seems to figure out pretty fast that Patrick isn’t in the mood for talking, silence swelling above and around the trickle of shitty pop music from the radio. They creep and crawl, bumper to bumper with the cars crowded onto the freeway around them and Patrick wonders if it’s just him – if he’s going insane – or the car is closing in around them.

 

“Breathe, P,” Pete prompts him gently, fingers soft with reassurance as he squeezes, the nudge of his knuckles to Patrick’s calming in their familiarity. “You look like you’re gonna barf, you okay?”

 

“Fine,” Patrick insists as they roll from the freeway to the surface streets, as Pete navigates the crushing rise of the city that rears above them, alight with shades of gold and matt-dark silver. “Listen, we don’t have to do this, you know? I mean… It’s not – ”

 

“Yeah, we do,” Pete nods like he has all the answers that seem to be evading Patrick, like he’s made his peace with whatever the outcome might be as he swings into the parking lot of a rundown building that looks like an office block. The ground floor is flooded with light, with a sign that declares it to be the Community Health Clinic. Patrick can’t breathe around the lump in his throat. “I’ve been looking into it. If I – if I _am_ , there’s like… drugs, now. Maybe – I mean, they don’t _know,_ you know? But… It could be okay.”

 

Patrick nods, sharp and curt, fingers curled around the door handle. Pete snags his jacket in a loose fist, tugging him back as he moves to swing from the car, to plant his feet on asphalt that doesn’t feel quite real. He glances back, eyebrows raised in silent question.

 

“I’ll understand,” Pete whispers, hand framing the plump curve of Patrick’s cheek, thumb grazing ownership into the sweep of his lower lip. Pete’s eyes glitter with sadness. “If I am and – and you want to leave. I’ll get it.”

 

“Shut up, Pete,” it’s not a witty retort, not the glow of reassurance he wants to exude. But it’s the best he has as he jams his hands into his pockets, drops his gaze under the fall of his bangs and strides into the clinic with confidence he doesn’t feel. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

It quickly transpires that _getting this over with_ is not a swift task. First, it’s the form, one each, clipped to a board with a half-dead pen. He scrawls his information quickly, name, date of birth, home address and the things he wants to be tested for. He glances at Pete, frowning down at the form in his own lap, watches him deliberately check each one, watches him pause for a moment over _are you a man that has sex with men?_ He checks the box. Patrick does the same.

 

Then it’s back to the waiting room to sit on uncomfortable chairs like they need to be punished with numb asses and badly moulded plastic that sits at odds with the curve of the human spine. They sip shitty coffee from the vending machine in silence. They don’t touch though Patrick wonders, as he glances at the couple wound together on the other side of the room, if they should. The clock on the wall creeps around as minutes stretch like hours in the awkward silence of a clap clinic waiting room. No one wants to make eye contact, shuffling as far apart as they can on the seats as they’re summoned one by one into the exam rooms at the back. Patrick bites his thumbnail until it stings, until the salt-copper tang of blood lingers against his tongue and teeth.

 

It’s close to seven. He really ought to call his mom.

 

“Patrick Stumph?” the nurse calls from her doorway. She looks tired, worn, like the day has taken its toll on her as Patrick hurries on fumbling feet to slip into the exam room. Pete catches his hand as he passes, just a brief squeeze and the flash of a smile that says _thank you._ Patrick smiles back. He’s not sure what his says.

 

It smells of antiseptic in the room, he notices that, the sharp undertone of some kind of cleaning product and the lingering scent of sickness that seems to cling to every doctor’s office and hospital he’s ever been in. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, the roll down paper towel crinkling under his ass as he blinks down at the toes of his Converse and prays that she won’t make conversation. She doesn’t, just confirms the bare minimum of information as she moves around him quickly, taking his blood pressure, checking his eyes, his mouth, poking and prodding him and cajoling him out of his jacket.

 

She swabs his arm, the sting of rubbing alcohol sharp in his nose. She wears gloves, he notices suddenly, all the time, never takes them off. The thought pulls him up sharp though he’s not sure why. He flinches as the needle sinks into his arm, as the bottle fills with the hot slick of crimson until she pulls it out, caps it off and writes out a sticky label with his name.

 

“Okay, if you could just take down your underwear for me,” she doesn’t look at him as she speaks, sliding his blood sample into a container. He looks at her, wide-eyed and stammering. “Now, please.”

 

His cheeks blaze, hot with humiliation as he stands slowly, as he clicks open the buckle of his belt and drags down his pants. He stares at the poster on the wall – something about chlamydia, it’s hard to focus – and reaches into his shorts, pulling out his cock. He should have known this was coming, should have anticipated it, and he knows she doesn’t care, that she’s seen it all before but… But _he_ cares.

 

Gloved hands hold him steady as he blinks back tears of embarrassment, a hiss of shock and a jerk of his hips earning him a sharp tut of reprimand as the swab probes down into his slit. His fingers bite into the bed behind him, discomfort squeezed into it as she does whatever it is she needs to do.

 

“All finished,” she informs him. He gratefully shoves himself back into his shorts, yanking his pants back up as she turns away to organise his samples. “Okay, you’re all set. Results will be in by Friday.”

 

He doesn’t reply, just fumbles for the door. Pete is gone, locked in another room with another harried nurse presumably. Patrick staggers for the parking lot, legs weak and stomach churning. He barely makes it past the door before he’s doubled over, coughing and hacking the bitter burn of bile over the asphalt, watching through the blur of tears as it splashes the toes of his sneakers.

 

The vomit lingers sour on his tongue as he leans back against the wall and tries to breathe deeply. Panic claws him bloody, scrapes each nerve ending raw until he’s pressing the heels of his hands deep into his eye sockets just to replace the fear with sensation, to drag back some control. There’s a hand, warm and firm in the small of his back, a voice in his ear that rings with reassurance and reminds him to _breathe, just breathe._

 

When their eyes meet, when Pete smiles at him with the same panic bright in eyes gilded golden, all Patrick can do is lean into him, to heave in the scent of cologne and skin that washes away chemical cleanliness. Pete holds him close, stokes his hair and kisses him soft and sweet.

 

“Come on,” he whispers, fingers raking into the gold of Patrick’s hair. “All done.”

 

Patrick nods. It’s all done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it all done though, boys? Is it _really?_ I guess you guys will have to check back next week to find out...
> 
> So, kudos are awesome and comments are fabulous and if you had the time... Well, I'd be eternally grateful for either!


	16. Forever got a lot shorter all of a sudden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick can't cry...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. This week's chapter title is taken from St Elmo's Fire, another John Hughes movie that comes with the Snitches seal of approval. Once again, huge thank you to laudanum_cafe for helping out with proof-reading and such. 
> 
> I remind you all to _remember the tags_ as you read.

It’s funny, Patrick supposes, how a moment can alter the course of a life.

 

When he was nine, he crossed the street without looking. A call to his friend over his shoulder - was it Danny Schulz? Kevin Rodrick? Will? He doesn’t remember - nothing concrete until the blast of a horn that shuddered him silent with horror. He remembers watching the front of the Pontiac speed closer, the way the grill had filled his vision, filled his _world_ with the stomach-cold dread of anticipation for the impact.

 

He’s not sure if the noise ringing in his ears was the squeal of tires against tarmac or the pitch of his own scream scraping his throat raw. He remembers, vividly, the colour of the paintwork, the way the clouds scudded soft in the gleaming crimson of the hood. He remembers, clearly, thinking he was going to die. But somehow he’d stumbled just right, tripping back on feet that felt like lead with pants wet with an ever-spreading stain of wet warmth as he fell back onto the sidewalk, the car skidding to a halt against the kerb. The driver had screamed at him, pale and shaking and Patrick knows he was pale and shaking too.

 

That moment, just a split second where a different twist of his ankle, an off centre shuffle of his toe against his sneaker and he could have tipped forwards instead of back, could have sprawled across asphalt and disappeared under the crush of rubber and metal. But he didn’t. Instead he pissed himself right in the middle of the street and had to hobble home on legs that shook with his dorky sweater knotted around his waist so no one would see.

 

There have been other moments, less intense but just as defining in their gravity.

 

The moment eyes like polished topaz had smiled at him over the slash of a bloodied lip. Warm beer and looks that burnt him with something he didn’t understand. When a warm body had curved to his and breath bright with possession had marked him out as _Baby P._

 

Standing out on the stage in Evanston, he’d thought for the briefest of seconds that Fall Out Boy could make it. Just a fleeting beat of his heart in his chest that dressed reality up in a stage costume of shimmering wonder that sparkled against the tips of his fingers. Just a moment.

 

Now, he’s not sure he can make it through the next hour, the next minute. Drawing the next breath into his lungs is struggle enough, the tick of his alarm clock impossibly loud in his ear. Pete’s breath skitters across the skin of his throat, their fingers entwined though he’s not sure how long for. How long until one of them breaks the hold, until they wind apart like driftwood caught in ever-changing tides and eddies of a life that cant. _Won’t_ , allow them to be together for too long. Not the forever he was promised, they won’t get that.

 

He’s not sure what to say, apparently neither is Pete as he shivers with sobs against Patrick’s side.

 

Patrick hasn’t cried yet, he’s not sure if that’s normal or not, if tears should sting his eyes the way they shake Pete raw as he whimpers the unfairness of it into Patrick’s chest. He strokes the lank fall of unwashed hair absently, stares out of the window at the way the bare trees curve towards the sky like hands burnt bare of skin and flesh. Just bones.

 

Pete leans up to kiss him, lips slicked bright with salt and damp with spit, eyes squinted red and tender as he cups Patrick’s cheek in one calloused hand. Patrick jerks back in the split second before their lips brush, eyes wide with fear and heart pounding with a discordant thrum in his chest, battering the suddenly too-small swell of his lungs as he shoves Pete away.

 

“Don’t!” he snarls, viciously vehement.

 

Pete rears back away from him like he’s been slapped, like he can feel the sting of skin to his cheek, like Patrick just kicked him in the square in the stomach. His eyes widen - hurt-stunned and stuttering - lips stammering something that hovers in the nowhere between an apology and an accusation, _I’m sorry_ all caught up and tangled tight with _what the fuck is wrong with you?_ Patrick gropes for the can of Lysol by his bed, sprays it on his hands, on his shirt, his sheets, mists the spray cool and damp down his arms to catch like crystals in the fine, blonde hair there.

 

He moves to turn the spray on Pete.

 

Pete braces back, knuckles white and twisted into the sheets but not in the way Patrick’s used to, his eyes dark with fury.

 

“Don’t you fucking _dare._ Fucking asshole,” he spits. Patrick ignores him, sprays a little more. It hurts his hands, makes them sting and throb. Pete’s voice drops to a taunting hiss that burns Patrick from the inside. “What’re you afraid of, pussy?”

 

“The doctor said...” he begins with fury on his tongue and accusation in his eyes, but he finds he has nowhere for that sentence to go. He lets it die.

 

The doctor. The man that didn’t smile, not even in comfort, the man with the voice clipped sharp and the pamphlet that Patrick couldn’t really see as Pete’s fingers tightened against his. _Contagious_ , he heard that. _Dangerous,_ too. He’d risked at glance at Pete, chest aching at the slump of his shoulders, at the defeated way he curled in on himself in the antiseptic-green plastic chair, knees drawn up so just his toes were braced to the floor. Pete curled his free arm around his midsection and blinked miserable miscomprehension down at the beige floor.

 

No sex, the doctor had informed them crisply, not even with condoms, far too risky. Patrick wonders, if that’s truly the case, what the point of all the posters about using condoms really is. No oral, no mutual masurbation - fuck, Patrick’s face had _stung_ with the burn of humiliation, his chest cold and stomach cramping as he thought of everything they’d already done, every risk they’d taken.

 

No kissing.

 

Pete had repeated that back with wide eyes and stammering lips. Patrick wanted to yank his hand away. _They_ didn’t know the risks, apparently. _They_ being the nameless, faceless people that weren’t working hard enough to figure out what the fuck to do about the epidemic. Saliva is a bodily fluid, bodily fluids are dangerous. Fucking is dangerous, touching is dangerous, _kissing_ is dangerous.

 

Love is dangerous. At least, love between two dudes.

 

Patrick hasn’t really slept since then. Not true sleep. Nothing but moments of dreamless exhaustion snatched on silent sheets, waking up gasping for air like he’s drowning as Pete jolts at his side. Pete doesn’t sleep much anyway. Between the two of them they’re red-eyed and bruise-ringed like sleepwalkers, leaning into one another like they need it to keep breathing.

 

He hasn’t eaten much either, hunger lost to a hollow ache deep in his stomach, something that twists, sharp and sour, whenever Pete mentions food. Pete makes him eat at least once a day, standing over him as he forces down a slice or two of pizza, as he feels his stomach cramp in objection and bile burn his throat as it threatens to come straight back up. He can’t eat right now, he just... can’t.

 

They stare at one another from opposite sides of the bed, a gulf of cotton comforter and words Patrick doesn’t know how to speak yawning like a chasm between them. He stares down into it, teeters on tiptoes at the edge and dares himself to fall down into it, crashing away into nothing and never emerging. It’s sink or swim, or so they say, and Patrick thinks he might be drowning.

 

Pete breaks first, grasping fists that twist into the well-worn cotton of Patrick’s shirt, hauling him close. Whispers worn into warm skin on satin-soft lips damp with regret and Patrick wonders, removed with the absence of it, if tears are dangerous, too. Pete whimpers something as his lips trace Patrick’s throat, as he kisses his neck, his shoulders, the curve of his ear and Patrick wonders, _why can’t he cry?_

 

He lets Pete draw him back to the mattress but forces wary distance between them, the safety of antiseptic scented sheets stretched between them, the lace and knot of tangled fingers the only point of minimal contact. Is this it? A lifetime of hands held but touch tarnished? Nothing close, nothing unsafe, nothing unclean because it’s no longer a risk but a reality, no longer a maybe but a must.

 

“Shit,” Pete mutters - his breath smells sour with spit-thick tears. “It’s Monday, right? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

 

“I think it’s pretty obvious I cut class,” Patrick mumbles into the curve of his pillow, eyes closed, pinching fury into the meat of his thigh between finger and thumb. Sharp, red pain. It brings tears to the corners of his eyes and that makes him feel normal. His mom thinks he’s at school, has no idea he waited round the corner for her car to leave then slipped back through the basement window. “I couldn’t,” couldn’t face it, couldn’t deal with hushed accusation and stares like daggers, as though they’d _know._ “I just… not today.”

 

“You haven’t been in a week,” Pete points out, fingers locked in the greasy fall of his hair. The curl is trying to spring back, inhibited by product and lack of washing but there none the less. “Don’t you think… Isn’t Will…?”

 

Patrick doesn’t reply, bites a thousand possible screaming accusations into the tender flesh inside his cheek. Will’s called every night, hiding concern from Patrick’s mom in soft spoken lies about chemistry homework and calculus study dates. Patrick has deflected them all with bright smiles that don’t reach his eyes, with cheerful excuses of _I’ll call him later_. Patrick’s mom isn’t buying it, she frowns the frown that Patrick has inherited, the ones that scrunches his nose and darkens his eyes as she thoughtfully places the phone back on the hook. He’s down to his last reprieve but how can he explain? _How?_

 

The world beyond the window is growing dark, dusk stealing across the sky and bringing death to daylight. It’s truly wondrous how many synonyms for the end of life can be found day to day if one simply takes the time to look for them. Pete shuffles closer with cautious care, flinched back from the shove that doesn’t come, crown that smells of sweat and unwashed skin tucked under the curve of Patrick’s chin. Within minutes Patrick’s shirt is soaked with tears and he wonders jealously; where does Pete find them? Where is the well of grief untapped deep in his chest that Patrick just can’t seem to locate in his own?

 

Darkness robes them in something secretive, something for them alone as he breathes in Pete’s scent. He should knock on the light but can’t summon the energy as the chill-damp cotton clings to his chest. He’ll need to change.

 

On the nightstand, the hastily glued hamburger phone springs into life, the noise of it shrill and sharp enough to have Patrick gritting his teeth in irritation. It rings off, breath held hot and sticky in his lungs gusts out in a grateful sigh.

 

It rings out again. Again and again and, on the fifth cycle, Patrick snatches at it in anger, hauling it to his ear as he rolls to his back.

 

“What!” he snarls, hoping it’s not someone from the country club. “Can’t you tell I’m fucking _busy -_ ”

 

“Patrick,” Will cuts him off, out of breath and shrill with panic that cramps Patrick’s gut. “Patrick, is it fucking true?”

 

“What?” Patrick stumbles, uncertain, Pete’s hand twisted from his as he rolls to his feet to pace on legs that tremble with uncertainty.

 

“The school, man,” Will’s a mile a minute muttering, voice hushed like he’s hiding in the hallway, knees tucked up, phone tucked under his jaw. “They - they sent a fucking letter and… Dude they - they’re saying you…” Will’s breath hitches like he’s crying - why can’t Patrick cry? “I mean, it’s not true but… They - They’re saying you have…”

 

There’s something like ice in Patrick’s veins, pooling cold and rotten in the pit of his stomach as his vision expands wildly then contracts, pinpoint sharp, to nothing but blazing bolts of white light. He shudders a breath, shoulder thumped to the wall as Will hiccups sobs down the line between them, the scrunch of paper balled in his fist impossibly loud in Patrick’s ear.

 

“HIV,” Patrick whispers as his world falls away around him, as he pictures the medical center form on a battered clipboard balanced against his knees. Name, date of birth, address, _school attended._ “I - I’m HIV positive.”

 

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, though the words have swirled in his head, burnt bitter at the back of his tongue with each inhale and exhale since he shivered in the clinical indifference of a hard plastic chair. It takes his breath away, steals the oxygen from his lungs and he’s drowning, floundering through fog and choking on each breath. He slides to the floor, crumbles to nothing as the dam breaks, snaps and gives under the yawning groan of the grief he’s held at bay for over a week. The tears were hiding with the ones that didn’t know, at least, that’s how it seems. Tucked away safe with the people that think he’s normal, with the ones that just see Patrick and not a dead man walking.

 

The ones that didn’t just see an infection risk.

 

The tears burn and sting, clawing his throat with roughened fury as he shakes shuddered breaths down the phone, as he mumbles apologies that he doesn’t know how to phrase. Pete skids to him, sliding on slashed-jean-knees across the rug to gather Patrick close, to press him to the warmth of his chest where his heartbeat echoes vibrantly. Will is stammering nonsense, half-words and reassurance and _I’m sorry_ over and over again.

 

Patrick is going to die. Not today or tomorrow, hell, not even next month or next year. But some time in the frame of a future he can imagine, not the faraway hazed imaginings of impossible old age and grandkids clustered around his bed. He’ll die a young man, thin and wasted on a hospital bed. He’ll die with medics that won’t touch him in case he hurts them too.

 

He’ll die without Pete. Because why would Pete - _clean_ Pete - stay with him, with the boy he can’t kiss, can’t fuck, can’t _touch_. Patrick is poison, he’s dirty, untouchable. Will’s breath is still shaking into his ear, static screaming insanity down the crackle of a busted speaker. Patrick has never wanted him more.

 

“Could - could you come over?” He stammers between hitching sobs that sting his throat. “Please, just for like, a half hour or something?”

 

“I don’t…” Will trails off, Patrick’s heart slams against his ribs. Not Will, he can’t lose Will. “My mom says - ”

 

“Dude, _please,”_ he implores, broken voice from a shattered boy. He leans into Pete though he knows he should pull away, pain rendering him selfish for tender touch. Pete strokes his hair, kisses his forehead and mumbles something incomprehensible into his ear. “I need you.”

 

“I can’t,” Will whispers, the clench of his jaw ringing sharp in his voice. “Dude they - they want to ban you from school. There - there’s a petition and… My mom is freaking the _fuck_ out, man. She wants me to get tested in case you... she… she says we can’t - can’t hang out.”

 

“What?” Patrick’s ears ring with the nonsense of it, with the panic-bright ache in his chest that everyone _knows_. Mrs Beckett, the woman that’s made his dinner, yelled at him, hugged him like a mother doesn’t want him around her son. It can’t be true, the school can’t have done this, can’t have _named_ him…

 

“The letter doesn’t say it’s you,” Will mutters, while Patrick’s heart stretches taut and snaps. “But everyone knows. Mr Dalton, he - he told a few kids. He said you’re… he wants you away from the school. He says we can catch it just touching you but - but that’s not true, is it? I mean… I’m safe, right?”

 

Something in Patrick screams aching fury, it rings in his ears and pounds in the poison of his blood.

 

“Fuck you, douchebag,” Patrick snarls, thought privately he’s terrified of the same. He digs the nails of his free hand into his palm and tries to breathe through the fear that wraps ice-cold around his chest. He forces himself to relax, can’t do that, can’t break the skin, can’t _bleed._

 

“This is fucking serious, man!” Will barks like a defence, like he can make everything the kids have whispered at school not true if he just puts enough venomous volume behind empty proclamations. Patrick sort of envies him, that he has nothing more to worry about than that time he took Patrick’s hand as they ate pizza on his bedroom floor.

 

“You think I don’t fucking _know_ that?” Patrick roars, throat burning with the effort of it. Pete is trying to pry the handset from him, he fights back, fingers twisted as he kicks out, blind with injustice. “You think this is a fucking _joke_ for me?”

 

“I just want to know if I could’ve caught it, you fucking faggot!” Silence falls between them, it whistles down the line like lake winds in winter as Patrick’s heart breaks a little further. Will stammers stuttered shock. “Dude… Wait - I - I didn’t mean - ”

 

“Yeah?” he sneers though he doesn’t want to, lips twisted into something ugly around the sniffle of sobs. “Yeah, I’ll bet you can get it touching me. Probably just breathing the same fucking _air_ as me. Then, you know what? Bet you gave it to your fucking _girlfriend.”_

 

He slams the phone to the wall once more. Another chip in the paint, another shattering of plastic cascading in shards against the floor. What does it matter? What does _any_ of it matter. Pete drags him close, hauls him tight, safe and secure against him as he mumbles words that fall sweet and senseless. He shivers his tears into the sweat-musk scented cotton of Pete’s chest, cries the unfairness of it all into the stretch of muscle and skin and heated vibrancy. Mikey and Patrick. The boys Pete will leave behind.

 

Funny, it never seemed quite so bad when it was just Mikey.

 

“They know,” he breathes, soft as air, into the curve of Pete’s throat. _Dangerous, toxic, poisonous, stop._ “Everyone knows. Fuck, Pete, they _know,_ I’m so - so fucked and… I don’t know what to - what to do, I just… Fuck...”

 

“Shh,” soothing sounds, a hand in the small of his back as fingers cradle his chin with tender warmth. He leans into the touch, craves tenderness, though the sensible part of him screams at him to pull away. _Unsafe. Unclean._ His head is tilted, lips lushly seeking against his brow, his cheeks, the flutter of his eyelids, straying down towards his mouth. He tenses, moves to shuffle back, Pete’s grip tightens, sharp and demanding.

 

“Look at me… Hey… I said fucking _look_ at me,” Pete commands, Patrick does, vision blurred and hazed through salted grief and pain. His nails grip into the solid warmth of Pete’s biceps as eyes flash like firelight. “I’m _not_ afraid of you.”

 

Patrick wants to argue, tastes the _fight back_ sharp at the back of his tongue as he moves to duck his head once more, to put distance between them. His face is cradled in calloused hands, tilted up and up until lips close over his like a fist fight, a tongue slick-sweet against his as Pete holds him sure and steady, pins him in place.

 

“Don’t,” he protests weakly when they break apart to breathe. “Pete, please, I - I can’t do…”

 

“You’re not a monster,” Pete hisses through teeth gritted with rage. “You’re not. And I’m not afraid of you. I’m not… _scared_ to fucking love you, P. I’m not.”

 

Love is one thing, Patrick’s not dumb - actually, Patrick is seriously fucking dumb which is exactly why he’s in this position - but is it enough? How long will Pete content himself with held hands and chaste smiles across the bed? They were forged in fucking, brought together with promises exchanged in sweat and come and what now? What next?

 

“I’m gonna die, Pete,” it’s a kick to the stomach, each time he says it, thinks it, each time Pete can’t tell him it’s not true. “I’m gonna die and we can’t even fuck. What’s the point?”

 

“You’re not gonna die,” Pete insists, softly searching eyes finding Patrick’s in the gloom of a room cast only in street lights. Patrick remembers the rattle of pebbles against his window, words whispering a world’s worth of promises to him in a dark back seat. “There’s… _treatment_ now, it’s not… it’s not like…”

 

“Mikey?” Patrick provides, mouth framing syllables that ache in his bones. “Kind of is, isn’t it? Two dead kids and you living like it’s never gonna stop? Why not you, Pete? Why not fucking _you?”_

 

He doesn’t mean it, aches to take it back, to pluck the words from the air where they hang between them like so many misfired bullets. Pete flinches, ducks his head in miserable silence, just the roar of their breathing deafening in Patrick’s ears. When Pete looks up, when their eyes meet, Patrick’s bright with silent apologies, Pete’s glittering with more unshed tears, he stammers quietly.

 

“If I could take it, I would,” he shrugs but it’s not dismissive, strokes a hand through the tattered mess of Patrick’s hair. “Baby P, I - this is my fault.”

 

Patrick shakes his head. He wonders again if Michael knew, if he had any idea as he slipped inside of him what the consequences could be. He wonders, if he didn’t, if he’ll find out before it’s too late. He doesn’t know anything about him; Michael from Albuquerque, who sometimes goes to that one club in the city that let’s shitty bands play a few songs. The doctor told Patrick to let everyone he’s slept with know. The only person he could tell was Pete.

 

His room is washed aglow with the dazzle-blind flash of headlights, picking out the pool-dark of shadows to dance like puppets against his wall against the flutter of his Cubs pennants. His mom is home. He tucks another sob into Pete’s throat.

 

“You need to talk to her,” Pete whispers, fingers tightening a warning into the small of Patrick’s back as he shakes his head. He can’t, he _can’t_ look his mom in the eye and tell her the truth. “P, she’s your _mom_ , you can’t… you can’t _do_ this to her. You need drugs, man. Treatment. You need your insurance.”

 

The click of the front door opening, the thump of it slamming closed. His bedroom door is open because it felt safer somehow, like Pete wouldn’t try anything Patrick couldn’t refuse if the room wasn’t safely sealed and just for them. He hears the click of her heels across the hardwood, the sound of her keys in the bowl in the hallway.

 

He hears the low whimper of a stifled sob.

 

He’s halfway down the stairs before he realises he’s moving, legs rubberband-numb as he stumble-trips his way towards her. She does the same, meeting him close to the bottom with her arms tight around him, her perfume sharp in his nose, her tears wet on his shirt. She meets him with grief and his name, stuttered repetition of it, _Patrick, oh Patrick_ over and over like she can use it to will the hurt away.

 

“I’m sorry, mom,” he mumbles, repeats it again and again until it tangles with his name, robed in the faltered flash of burning tears. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

“I’m gonna get going,” Pete’s voice splits the air between them, his hesitant steps still impossibly loud. “I just - ”

 

“You,” his mom hisses, razor sharp between teeth clenched, moving Patrick aside as the stairs close between them. He can’t stop her, can’t react as her hand pulls back, as it rushes forward and Pete’s eyes widen, hands useless and limp at his sides as the crack of skin against skin rings out. He surges back from the slap, head snapping back and hand shooting up to nurse skin springing crimson. She follows him step for step, screaming rage and accusation as bitter as blood. “You fucking bastard! You fucking _bastard!_ Get out! Get out of my fucking house and stay away from my fucking son!”

 

“Mom!” Patrick stumbles after her, blood hot, face burning as he pulls her back, as he shoves Pete away. “Mom he didn’t! I didn’t catch it from Pete, I swear! He’s clean, I swear he is, it’s just… it’s just me… Just me.”

 

She slows to a halt, blinks incomprehension at him for a moment, whispers his name like a question that he knows deserves an answer. He takes her hands, squeezes soft apology into them as he continues, voice low, “I… There was a guy on - when I toured last year. Just some - some dude at a show. I - I think I it was him. It wasn’t Pete, mom. I swear it wasn’t.”

 

It aches to say it, to admit that he was the one in the wrong and that there’s no one to blame but himself. He’s a monster, a boogie man, the one mothers will whispers about and pull their kids away from on the street. He waits for his mom to rage, to scream, to push him away from her.

 

_Dangerous. Dirty. Unclean. Unsafe._

 

She’s not afraid of him either, he feels it in the way she crushes him close, the way she doesn’t care that he smudges her power suit with spit and grief, the way she rocks him like she did when he was tiny. They find their way to the couch, close, warm, _safe_ for just a moment, the fear receding because mom will make it better, she always does. She strokes his sweaty hair, whispers soothing nonsense to him as he cries for all the things he assumed were certain but now he knows will never be.

 

Finally, when the sobs shudder to sniffles and then nothing but hiccuping breaths stuttered over lips glazed dry and cracked with salt, she squeezes his shoulder as Pete squeezes his hand.

 

“What do we do?” she asks, voice firm with determination.

 

“There isn’t anything - ”

 

“There’s drugs,” Pete cuts him off, voice crisp enough to cut, razor sharp warning bitten into his palm from blunt black nails. “I - I don’t know if your insurance…”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” his mom is more upright, back straight, something like fire in eyes like his own. “I’ll pay if it doesn’t.”

 

“Mom, you _can’t,”_ Patrick objects weakly. “They - they charge eight _thousand_ a year for them.”

 

She doesn’t tell him to shut his damn mouth, but it’s there in the glare she shoots him. He winces back with eyes squeezed tight, teeth caught sharp around his lip until he remembers, reminds himself he can’t break the skin. He can’t bleed. Deep breath gasped into grasping lungs.

 

“We go and see Dr Ahmed tomorrow,” she informs him crisply. “No arguments.”

 

He’s not sure he has the fight left in him to argue any more. Will’s words still sting, the letter, Mr Dalton, everything closing in like claustrophobic nightmares to squeeze him agonisingly as he whispers softly, “How did you… Who told you?”

 

“I got a call from the school,” a sob shudders her voice once more, she sniffs it down and squares her shoulders, shivering a sigh as she leans into him once more. “You know how I feel about cutting class but - but I’m glad you weren’t there. For that. I swear to God, I’m going to… I’ll fucking _sue_ them for what they’ve done! I can homeschool you. Get you a tutor, I - ”

 

“Don’t,” he whispers around the ache in his chest. In close to eighteen years, he’s never heard his mom swear. Not once. Not even in the midst of an acrimonious divorce, not when Kevin threw that house party when they were away visiting his aunt and uncle and the living room curtains got lit on fire. Never. He’s kind of proud to be the first one to do something dumb enough to force it out of her. “Please don’t.”

 

The fury drains from her, eyes dimming dull as she strokes his hair like he’s already gone, sadness shimmering soft between them. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him - does she see her train wreck of a teenager or someone softer, the six-year-old version of him with a skinned knee she can’t fix. The heartbroken fourteen-year-old, laughed at when he asked Brooke Lands to the dance, crying the shame of it into oreos and milk over the kitchen table at ten at night. He hopes when he’s gone that she’ll remember those versions of him, not the emaciated skeleton left to rot in a hospital bed.

 

He hopes Pete will think back on their time together with a smile, that he’ll remember sunlight streaked across the contrast of their skin, illuminating them coffee and cream. He hopes he’ll remember stolen kisses and whispered declarations, gold-gilt grins and fingers laced with promise. He hopes he’ll think of sweat and heat, bodies tangled close as promises.

 

He hopes, when the end comes, that it won’t hurt too much. He hopes that if it _does_ , he won’t be alone.

 

That’s kind of what scares him the most.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for another history lesson.
> 
> I am not in any way exaggerating or making up the worse-sounding aspects of this chapter. Yes, AZT (which was the first licenced drug for the treatment of HIV/AIDS) really DID cost $8000 a year. In 1987. That's about $17,200 in current currency, allowing for inflation. Oh, and they didn't really know what the long term outcome would be, just that it would "delay" the onset of AIDS. A month? A year? Fuck, _no on knew_ and they were being charged the price of a decent car PER YEAR to find out. Medical insurance often didn't cover it, so if you couldn't afford it and your insurance either wouldn't pay out or, you know, you weren't insured, you were fucked. 40,000 people diagnosed with the disease in 1987 and the Government just shrugged its shoulders.
> 
> Second - Patrick's school. Again, not an exaggeration. Would you like some thoroughly depressing reading? Google Ryan White. He was banned from attending school after his diagnosis after he was infected following a routine blood transfusion. 
> 
> History - even modern history - is depressing. Sorry about that.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, or you can stop my Tumblr [here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers)


	17. Everybody I know is desperate, except for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we address Joe's stage possession...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back. Sorry about last week, I was completely caught up in dealing with [Be My (Peterick) Valentine.](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/PeterickValentine) If you haven't checked it out yet, you absolutely should - tons of valentine-themed Peterick by some amazing authors.
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to laudanum_cafe for reading over this for me and this week's title is taken from Desperately Seeking Susan.

Patrick wakes weak with swirling nausea, motion sick with dizziness although he hasn’t moved, overheated and sour with the smell of sweat that lingers on his skin and drenches his pajama pants and faded Snoopy shirt. He’s half a staggered step from upright, falling foul of swirling vertigo that threatens to pitch him head first into the wall as vomit rises at the back of his throat. Hot and sour, bright and sharp, saliva springs thick on his tongue as he lurches and gasps – panic-drunk – aiming for the bathroom on sweat-slippery soles.

 

The floor lurches towards him, dark-stained hardwood knotted and grained and threatening to smash him dazed but something – _someone_ – snags him by his shirt, hauls and twists and pulls him to bounce harmlessly against his shoulder. He’s dragged to his ass, back propped to the wall that throbs cool relief through cotton, a bowl slipped smoothly to his lap as his stomach empties itself of bitter bile.

 

“Drink this,” a glass of water is pressed to his lips, cool damp flooding the heated sticky-sour of his tongue. His stomach cramps and he shakes his head in weak objection, trying to shove away the hand, the glass, the _world_ creeping in on him. “Drink it.”

 

“Fuck you,” he grinds out, weak between retching heaves that strain his stomach. Pete purses his lips, drops to a crouch and presses the glass to the shivering stretch of Patrick’s lips.

 

“Drink it.”

 

He drinks.

 

It’s just the right temperature, not so tepid that the chlorinated tang of it will make him gag, not so cold that the icy chill of it will cramp his stomach and bring the whole glass back up to slosh amongst the sour-smelling foulness in the bowl on his lap. He hears the crinkle of the blister pack popping open, blinks objection down at his toes as Pete presses his morning dose of Zidovudine to his lips. He thinks about resisting but knows there’s no point, Pete will stand over him, watch him, _force_ him to swallow it if he has to.

 

Tears sting his eyes, bitter with the injustice of the knowledge that _he’s_ the one that has to do this. _He’s_ the one that’s going to be popping pills that make him feel like he’s dying for the rest of his life, all to stave off dying. It seems pointless, futile, he felt _fine_ before and surely – don’t look at him like that, it makes _sense_ – _surely_ he should just enjoy whatever time he has. It could be years, years of needlessly making himself feel like he’s permanently crippled with motion sickness, of lying in bed while the room swirls eddies around him and paints his ceiling with bright star shines of blazing colour that makes his head throb.

 

For what?

 

“Just leave me alone,” he begs, raw with the sting of it, with the need to just curl in on himself on the floor and let the cold of the hardwood dry the sweat from his skin.

 

“Take it,” Pete’s voice is rough, sharp enough to batter down the dam holding back the grief he thought he didn’t feel but now finds he can’t block off. Tears roll, fat, wet, _messy_ tears, over the crests of his cheeks as his shoulders shake with silent sobs. The warm wrap of Pete’s arm around him shakes him with a shiver, his head lolled onto the familiar stretch of inked shoulder as Pete offers the pill once more, gently this time, voice a lilt of a plea. “Come on, P. For me? Please?”

 

He wants to argue – God knows he wants to rage about it – wants to point out that he’s done _everything_ for Pete. Each request complied with, each demand met and more, each whispered word like a hold up, he’s handed over everything he has and been offered no reprieve, granted no quarter. He wants to blame Pete, wants to remind him that he’s the reason he fucked that guy in the first place, to hiss accusation and watch gold eyes dull to copper like reverse alchemy. He wants to dim the sun and call down the stars and drag everyone into the darkness with him.

 

But he also doesn’t want to die.

 

He opens his mouth, ragged with resignation, and takes the pill, swallows it down with another slug of water and a warm hand scoring a litany of love songs into the small of his back. Pete nudges a kiss to his temple, weaves their fingers together against the plaid cotton warmth of his thigh and gusts a sigh.

 

“I know they make you sick – ” Patrick huffs a laugh that drips with sarcasm, “ – but the doctor they’d settle in a couple weeks…”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick takes another sip and waits for the world to right itself and stop pitching and lurching quite so violently. It comes in stages, in the press of warm fingers through his hair, in the touch of chapped lips to his cheek and whispered declarations of reassurance that ring between them, honey soft and just as sweet. He leans into him with a sigh and wonders, with a pitch of dread joining the nausea in his stomach, just how long this will seem novel. How long until he moves on to some nice, _clean_ girl that he can live his life with?

 

How long until Patrick becomes a burden?

 

In the weeks since the diagnosis, he’s barely left Patrick’s side, closely claustrophobic in the way he shadows his steps. He wakes with Pete watching him, eyes sharp and dark in the gloom of early morning stillness, the sad quirk of a smile that doesn’t quite move from his lips. It makes Patrick heartsick for the smiles he used to share, the glow of lake-effect sunsets from the other side of a sweat-hazed stage, the wicked tuck of lips into his neck as he made Patrick writhe and moan. Now they’re solid only with the reassurance that Patrick has managed to open his eyes, like Pete is nervous he’ll slip away during the night, that Pete will greet his day with Patrick cold next to him. It’s not that Patrick’s not grateful for the company – it’s _not_ , he really is – it’s just hard to breathe sometimes when Pete follows him to the bathroom.

 

Once he’s showered and dressed, Pete’s jacket wrapped tight around him – it fits him perfectly, he’s lost so much weight now he doesn’t feel much like eating – hands shoved down into the pockets and shoulders hunched, they make their way out to the car. Pete drops him off at school every day, ten minutes after the bell for first class. He picks him up, too, ten minutes before everyone leaves and it’s not that Patrick doesn’t appreciate the effort it’s just… He doesn’t know. Has no way of framing exactly how he feels as he shoulders his backpack, raises his hand in a half-hearted wave and treads the corridors that ring with the quiet of class already in session.

 

Room 216.

 

It’s tucked away behind the science labs, probably designed as a classroom for smaller, high achieving groups. Now it’s Patrick’s. The principal implied he should be grateful, being allowed to remain in school at all is a privilege he’s made it clear both the staff and student bodies don’t agree with. He works in isolation, just him, a stack of text books and crib sheets, his high school education reduced to nothing more than calling a teacher from home if there’s something he doesn’t understand. There are many things he doesn’t understand – when did he become so _bitter?_ – but he’s damned if he’s going to admit that calculus is one of them.

 

His mom was furious, told him he didn’t have to subject himself to the isolation. She mentioned home schooling again, tutors, but Patrick knew. No one would tutor him, not when they found out why he couldn’t just attend school. News travels fast in small town suburbs. It’s easier this way, the familiarity of the hallways oddly comforting. He doesn’t have a locker any more but he still walks past it – 624 – open and empty like the lockers around it. Everyone must have asked to move once they heard the rumours. He’s got pretty good at pretending it doesn’t hurt, even to himself.

 

The room is sharp with the tang of disinfectant in ways it wasn’t when he first started using it. He wonders if the cleaning staff think they can catch something just from wiping down his desk, if that’s why they douse it in neat bleach each night. The residue of it stings his arms so he leaves on the jacket, flicks open his history book and starts to work.

 

He stays where he is for lunch, eats his sandwich with his headphones slung over his ears, eyes closed and head tipped back against the seat. He’s lost in the music, drifting along with Costello, so buried in it that he almost misses it. The unmistakable tap of knuckles to glass and he glances up with a start.

 

Will smiles at him from behind the window, flushed and hesitant, voice a rushed hush as he hisses from the door.

 

“Dude, I can’t stay long,” he mutters as Patrick scrabbles upright, headphones pushed back to clatter to the floor behind him. He doesn’t know if he should punch Will, ignore him, or grab him and never let go. “I – I’m sorry. About what I said. It… It was pretty shitty, right?”

 

Patrick nods dumbly.

 

“Look, man,” he tugs at the hem of his stupid black duster, runs a hand through his feathery, jet-black hair and blinks eyes framed thick with heavy eyeliner. He looks dumb as hell. “My mom she – she freaked _out_ and – and I’m _scared_ , okay? I just… I’ll figure something out, yeah?”

 

“You’re a dick,” Patrick mutters through the clench-tight grit of his teeth, the ache in his heart so tangible he’s sure it will kill him where he sits. “But I miss you.”

 

“Yeah,” Will says, sweetly simple. Patrick shivers as his heart shatters, as the shrapnel sprays his insides with something agonising and drags more tears – don’t judge him, okay, just… don’t – to film his tongue and thicken his voice. “I – I miss you, too. Listen, I gotta go but… Yeah.”

 

“Right,” Patrick agrees, brisk and business like, faking like his stomach doesn’t hurt with the need to speak to someone, _anyone_ , that can make him feel normal. “Catch you later.”

 

Will’s gone with a smile and a wave, a click of the door and the silence broken by the tinny ring of his headphones, Patrick blinks at the chalkboard. He won’t cry, he promises himself, pinching determination into his wrist. Not right here, not where people might find out, his red-rimmed eyes calling him out when he shuffles to the bathroom. Not right now.

 

He _won’t_ fucking _cry._

 

After lunch, a teacher appears. He recognises her around the roughened scrape of eyes sore from tears he swears he won’t shed even as they run, traitorous and hot, down his cheeks. He sniffs valiantly, shoves his headphones down around his neck once more and blinks up at her, confused. She smiles at him – it’s just a smile, why does it make his chest hurt? – and drops into the chair next to him. She’s younger, he notices, pretty. Maybe a couple of years out of college but it’s hard to tell when everyone over 25 basically looks like they’re ready for death.

 

“Patrick?” she asks, hand held out in casual greeting, like she doesn’t know who he is. Like she doesn’t know _what_ he is.

 

“I, uh…” he trails off, doesn’t know what to say or how to phrase it, staring down at the hand she doesn’t withdraw. “You – you know why I’m, like, in here, right?”

 

“I’m Ms Hartley,” she carries on without missing a beat, grasping the loose fall of his hand in hers and shaking firmly, as though he didn’t say anything. As though he’s normal. “I’ll be tutoring you in the run up to your finals, if that’s okay with you?”

 

He nods, unsure. He has no idea what to do or what to say as she shifts a little closer in her chair, as she breathes in the air he breathes out like he’s not dangerous, not a risk. She carries on talking through the text, muttering something about it not being as easy to demonstrate without lab equipment as he sits, drawn tense next to her. He barely moves, barely breathes and, after ten minutes or so of his silence she turns to look at him.

 

“I know,” she informs him simply. He doesn’t need to ask _what_ , she doesn’t offer any further explanation. They both know exactly what she means. “It doesn’t matter… No, that’s ridiculous, I… Of _course_ it _matters_ but… I’m not an expert. But I have a degree in microbiology and – and I studied this. You’re not _dangerous_ , Patrick. Not like this, not in this situation. Don’t – don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

 

Patrick blinks back tears. He nods hesitantly and finds he doesn’t know what to say, how to react. Rejection was becoming his normal, dislike and whispered menace just his way of life. It would seem in just a few weeks he’s become so accustomed to hostility, he doesn’t know how to deal with hope. A thought occurs to him, fumbled notions tripping from the tip of his tongue as he leans closer without thinking. She doesn’t move back.

 

“Zidovudine,” he asks, so fast his lips stumble and fumble over the word. She cocks her head in response, waiting for his point. “Do you like… How long until I don’t feel like fucking _ass?”_

 

He swears that the laugh she lets out in response is the most wonderful thing he’s heard in weeks.

 

~*~

 

The side effects recede gradually. It’s not that he wakes up one morning feeling okay, more like the gradual roll back of the tide. He’s only seen the ocean a couple of times but he remembers watching it in LA, standing by the van and smelling the salted tang of it, watching the way it drew back from the shore. That’s how it feels as slowly, day by day, the headaches reduce, the nauseated kick to the gut isn’t quite so bitter sharp on his tongue each morning, he doesn’t watch the world pitch and swirl around him every time he stands up.

 

Pete is still there, still rubbing his back on the rare days he can’t stop vomiting, still curled into his side every night as he drifts to the sweet relief of dreamless sleep. He still doesn’t ask Patrick to touch him, doesn’t try to slide his hand under the waistband of Patrick’s pajama pants each night. It’s not that Patrick thinks Pete doesn’t _want_ to, it seems more like he knows what the answer will be.  Fuck, but Patrick misses kissing though, misses it more than anything else, with lips that ache for the heat and press of another mouth, another tongue against his own.

 

He has no idea where Pete might be at this particular moment though. He slipped away an hour ago, muttering something about having a few things to pick up and that he’d be back soon. Patrick is sprawled on his bed with his algebra textbook, trying to figure out why he should give a shit about the value of _x_ when the bedroom door swings open. He doesn’t glance up, scratches at the back of his neck and spits out a greeting around the clutch of the pencil grasped between his teeth, “Hey, how are you at algebra…”

 

The words trail off as he glances up, expecting a caramel gaze and toothsome smile. Instead it’s eyes like espresso dropped into a face as pale as cream, lips quirked into something between a grin and a sob as Will – fucking _Will_ – fidgets nervously with his hands. Patrick scrabbles up and away, huddling against his headboard with his knees drawn to his chest as his heart stutters in his chest. Pete appears, shy smile and raised eyebrows, but only for a moment.

 

“I have to get him back in an hour,” he informs Patrick softly. “I’ll be downstairs, your mom needs some help with dinner.”

 

For a moment there’s silence beyond the click of the door closing, just the hum of hurt that rings between them, the questions that neither want to ask and the answers they don’t know how to provide. Patrick clears his throat weakly, his voice a pathetic rasp against his throat that trips over his lips with a crack like it’s still breaking.

 

“Sit… Why don’t you sit down?” he points at his chair but Will joins him on the bed, reaches for his hand with a sad smile. Patrick feels pathetic with the gratitude it ignites but holds on tight, fingers laced and caught tightly together. “I thought your mom said – ”

 

“She doesn’t know,” Will shrugs with a crooked half smile, that wicked gleam in his eyes like he had when they got halfway to drunk on wine coolers behind the gas station a lifetime ago. “Pete picked me up a couple streets over. She thinks I’m out with Sarah.”

 

“Oh,” Patrick finds, after weeks of planning every conversation, that he has no idea what to say.

 

“Pete told me on the way over,” Will takes a breath that seems to make the walls shake. “He said I can touch you, that, like, it’s _safe.”_

“Yeah,” Patrick mutters, gaze still locked on the link of their hands. “Yeah, that’s what – what the doctor said. Long as I don’t come in your ass, you should be fine.”

 

It takes a beat for Will to react, for his face to shift from shock-stunned and frozen to a wide-lipped laugh that ripples around Patrick, draws his mouth into a smirk. It breaks the wall down between them, shifts them to something familiar and warm and then it’s easy, they lapse into their usual shit talk and insults, pretending for a moment that everything’s normal and Patrick’s not dying. He’s doing it slowly, for sure, but it’s happening nonetheless.

 

They talk about school and the things Patrick can’t really relate to anymore, about the band he’s avoiding and the future he knows he won’t get. But with Will wide-eyed and normal, it’s nice to pretend that he’s going to college in the fall, that the band is on the brink of something huge, that yeah, he and Pete have talked about how they might move in together. Pretty lies but soothing.

 

Their time is almost up before Patrick is ready for it, the clock on the desk ticking towards the demise of normality. Will sits a little straighter, flicks his eyes between the clock and Patrick’s face and shifts with something close to discomfort.

 

“So, I, like, had some news,” he murmurs between barely parted lips. “If you wanted to hear it.”

 

“Yeah, what?” Patrick is propped on an elbow, stretched out with his chin cupped in his palm.

 

“It’s, well, okay this is kinda… You’re like, the first person that knows,” Will says, something bright and secretive in his smile, sparkling in the dark depth of his eyes. “So, you like, can’t tell anyone, right?”

 

“Right,” Patrick nods, no idea where this is going but excited to be in on something anyway.

 

“Right,” Will echoes. Patrick wishes he would get to the point. “You – you know Sarah? Well, we… _she_ … I, uh – I mean, you know, she’s… pregnant.”

 

The air leaves Patrick’s lungs, leaves the room, gusting away from him and leaving him still with icy silence. A baby. Will is having a baby. A child that will grow up, see the world around them change and evolve and Patrick _won’t be there._ A child he won’t see into adulthood, a life of fatherhood that Will won’t get to share with him. Fatherhood. Patrick is only seventeen, he’s never thought about it but right now, right in this moment of aching nothingness he swears it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

 

Tear sting his eyes – stupid, so fucking _dumb_ – lower lip caught in a quiver between the snag of his teeth as he promises himself once again that he won’t cry. It’s no use as Will blinks at him in concern, reaches to touch his shoulder with a black nailed hand.

 

“Patrick?” he whispers, and it’s no use, the tears bubble over unbidden, the sobs shaking him apart as Will struggles upright, hovers uncertain like he doesn’t know what to do. “I – I don’t… Should I…”

 

“It’s fine,” Patrick hiccups gasps around sobs, tears buried in the palms of his hands as he forces a laugh. “God, I’m such an asshole, swear to God I just… _fuck_ , Will, that’s awesome. Wait – like, _is_ it? Are you, you know, _happy?”_

“I…” Will trails off and bites his smile into his lip, eyes creased with delight and alight with shy pride. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. Totally stoked. Her dad is gonna, like, fucking _kill_ me… I’m so dead. Shit. Fuck, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry, so sorry – ”

 

The hug is unexpected in its ferocity, Will’s arms tight enough to squeeze the air from his lungs, to crush the tears from him until Will is as drenched with grief as he is. They lean into one another, two boys adrift in uncertainty, not ready for the way they’ve steered their own destinies but at least Will’s is positive. Will’s future is filled with life, Patrick has only uncertainty and death. The unfairness knocks him dizzy, leaves him spinning and aching with something like jealousy burning in his chest, something he doesn’t want to feel.

 

“You dumb son of a bitch,” he says eventually, half laugh, half sob. “You stupid motherfucker. But like, that’s _so_ radical, man. I’m happy for you.”

 

“You’ll be their uncle,” Will grins like sunrise, like he’s punching Patrick in the stomach and doesn’t even realise. “Or, like, their godfather I guess. If we do that. I don’t know, I – ”

 

“I won’t,” Patrick interrupts softly. “I won’t be here.”

 

“I… You… Oh,” Will trails off, eyes sliding to the side as his lips twitch down at the corners. “I mean… Like, you’re taking meds, right? You’re okay?”

 

“They just drag it out,” Patrick shrugs like it’s not agonising. “They don’t – don’t know. How long. But, like, yeah… I’m gonna die, Will.”

 

“You’re not,” Patrick jumps as Pete speaks from the doorway, the blaze of fury – at Patrick, at the disease, at the world he’s always wanted to burn down around him – shining bright in his eyes. “Will, let’s go.”

 

They hug like it’s forever, crushed tight as Will’s tears stain his skin. There are words, whispered soft in his ear, platitudes and promises and things that don’t mean anything.

 

The only thing he really hears is _I’m sorry._

~*~

 

There’s a panic attack blooming in Patrick’s chest, something sharp and uncomfortable that wraps his lungs in fear and makes it hard to breathe. This is ridiculous, it’s just his basement, just his _friends_ – the ones that don’t know – the people he loves like family. Pete takes his hand, brushes the reassurance of a kiss to his knuckles as Andy and Joe descend the stairs into the basement.

 

It must be a month and a half since the show, since they practiced, since they spent any time together at all. Joe moves in different circles to Patrick, no overlap between their friends at different high schools and Andy lives in the city with a bunch of other hardcore kids. They don’t know. Right now, all Patrick has to fear is the anger of desertion, irritation that he’s let the band lapse when they were trying so hard to get it started again.

 

What’s the point? Why is he even doing this? He has nothing to offer them any more but the fear of rejection – because of him – the risk of infection – because of him – nothing but the prospect of a singer that won’t always be around. He braces himself for the accusations, for Joe to yell at him for fucking up shows that haven’t happened.

 

“Where you been at, man?” Joe implores, blue eyes wide with friendly accusation as he gathers Patrick into a hug. “Thought you’d bailed on us!”

 

It falls back into place like nothing happened and – irritatingly – Pete was right in the hours spent cajoling him, he _is_ distracted, he _does_ think more about the music than the HIV. For the first time in six weeks he feels… normal.

 

They thrash through song after song until he’s drenched with sweat and soaring with adrenaline and he needs, he _craves_ , to step out onto a stage once more. He aches for the roar of the crowd in his ears, for the screams of the lyrics he wrote in another lifetime. He wants heat and sweat like fucking because it’s the closest he’s ever going to get to feeling that again.

 

Joe is insane, like he’s out on stage once more, a blur of curls and plaid as he twists and jumps, missing them all by a fraction of an inch. Patrick grins, slams another chord into the frets and screams out the loneliness into the lyrics, closes his eyes and lets it all wash over him as he pulls back, ducks his head to focus on the fretboard under his fingers.

 

It’s nothing at all really, just a badly timed moment as he moves back a step, just a jar of movement completely accidental as he ducks his head and half-turns in the same split second of time that Joe careers into him, the stock of his guitar cracking into Patrick’s brow with a sickening thud. Just an accident and, for a moment, Patrick feels nothing at all but jarring dizziness and swirling confusion as the world flips and fuzzes and his mouth doesn’t seem to work properly when he moves it.

 

Pain explodes, bright and blinding behind his eyes, his vision dimming for a second before screaming back into overwhelming technicolour. The taste of copper and salt is thick at the tip of his tongue as he staggers back, hands shooting up automatically to defend himself, to soothe the agony pulsing through him. He’s aware of the music faltering to a halt as first Joe, then Pete, then Andy realise what’s happened, as Joe takes three hurried steps towards him, reaching for his face, his split brow, his _blood_.

 

“Shit, dude, you okay…”

 

“Stay back!” Patrick screams, vaguely aware of it echoing down the microphone and through the speakers, bouncing across the room. His hand is extended to keep Joe back, his shirt clutched to his brow as he tries to stem to flow. Panic beats a drum in his chest like a heart attack, as poison flows from his face; _infectious, dirty, dangerous_. “Don’t fucking _touch_ me! I’m HIV positive!”

 

“W-what?” Joe staggers to a halt, hands snatched back and voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re fucking _what?_ I – what the _fuck!_ Is any on me? Jesus fucking Christ, did any get on me?”

There are hands on his shoulders as Joe rages somewhere in the background. Patrick wants to shrug them away but lacks the strength, physically drained dizzy from the impact, compliant as he’s guided to the floor and the pressure of wadded cotton tight against his brow.

 

“Pete, don’t…” he mumbles with tongue thickened objection, head a whirl of confusion as Joe rages something in the background, blindly panicked and wildly furious. He hears Andy muttering something soothing, hears his muttered _I’ll take him outside._ Pete’s still touching him, hands still on his face and there’s blood, so much blood. “Pete, _don’t!”_

“Shut up, P,” he snaps, guiding Patrick’s hand to the shirt – Pete’s shirt? – pressed tight to his brow. “Come on, let’s get you to the emergency room, that needs stitches.”

 

Patrick wants to object, to tell Pete he’ll be fine but fuck, his head hurts. It’s hard to think around the blur of blinding pain as he staggers on feet that feel drunk to the car. He keeps the shirt pressed tight, lets the blood soak into the cotton where it’s not as dangerous. It’s hard to open his eyes but when he does, he thinks he sees streaks of crimson on Pete’s hands that fill him with panic he’s too dizzy to rage about.

 

The ER is crowded but a room is found for them quickly – Patrick tries not to think about the way the nurse looks at him as he’s shoved to a bed.

 

“Hey, this looks like it might be pretty quick,” Pete tries to joke when they’re left alone. Patrick doesn’t laugh.

 

It’s not quick.

 

He knows, with that ache in his chest, that they were dumped in a side room for safety, not speed. This is where he can’t hurt any of the nice, clean folks sitting in the waiting room like normal people. At least there’s a sink and surgical soap for Pete to wash his hands.

 

They sit in silence. Pete tries to break it a couple times with casual conversation but all Patrick can hear around the dull throb in the base of his skull is Joe’s disgust, all he can see is the way the face of his friend had twisted in horror. Self-hatred gnaws him nauseated as he keeps the shirt pressed to his face – the bleeding has slowed a lot, mostly the cotton just sticks to the wound and makes it sting – and tries to concentrate on, just once, not fucking crying.

 

“Patrick Stumph?” the young doctor that comes into the room eventually pronounces it wrong. It’s not _Stumff._ He wonders if he should just drop the h. Does it matter? He nods. “I’m Dr Caulfield, could you tell me what’s happened?”

 

“My friend…” he tries to concentrate but it’s so hard with the pain spiking thunderbolts across his skull. “I…”

 

“He took a guitar to the face,” Pete supplies helpfully from the chair. “He’s – he’s positive.”

 

“Mmhmm,” the doctor hums, he doesn’t wear gloves as he gently removes the shirt. “I know a little more about that than most.”

 

Patrick’s eyes widen.

 

“Are – are you?” he stammers in confusion.

 

He doesn’t answer, just looks closely at the crest of Patrick’s brow, “Looks worse than it is.”

 

Patrick’s not sure if he means the infection or the cut.

 

They sit in silence, broken only by pained hissing as the doctor washes out the wound with care, pausing to gather together surgical tape and dressings. Patrick’s sense returns in stages, reasoning flooding back to fire his tongue with hundreds of questions.

 

“Can I ask you something?” he begins, soft with hesitation. The doctor raises his eyebrows without looking at him. “It’s about… HIV.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“How… How dangerous, like, _am I?”_ he whispers, the question no one has ever really been able to answer with anything other than the promise of loneliness. “My – my boyfriend. Can I, you know, _kiss_ him?”

 

“Patrick,” the doctor begins after a short pause, hand firm against the blood-streaked stretch of his forehead. “Life is a daily risk, any one of us could be struck by lightning, hit by a bus, fall out of bed and crack our skulls on the nightstand.”

 

The room is silent for a moment as he tapes the edges of Patrick’s wound, places a dressing over it neatly and moves to wash his hands at the sink. Patrick’s heart is pulsing too hard, too fast, his lungs struggling to keep up and he blinks feverishly in the too-bright light of the exam room.

 

“We take precautions with risks,” he continues quietly. “I can’t tell either of you the right choice. But I can tell you that I wear a seatbelt on my way to work in case I crash. I can tell you that I look both ways before crossing the street. I can tell you that each tiny precaution that we take makes our lives safer as a whole. Who’s to know how many people we’ve touched that are infected and we’d never know.”

 

“So…” Pete trails off uncertainly. “Kissing is…?”

 

“I’ve done a lot of research,” he sighs, carding a hand through his hair. “Nothing suggests saliva is infectious, it’s just… fear.”

 

Patrick blinks at Pete slowly, certain the way that his head is throbbing must be affecting his ability to process what the doctor is saying. Pete smiles back, shy and soft, gently reaches for his hand.

 

“Condoms stop the spread of infection, we _know_ that,” the doctor shrugs. “People tend to kiss when they’re intimate, do you see what I mean?”

 

“I – I mean… I guess?” Thoughts don’t make sense, he wants Advil and to lie down for a while, just until the room stops lurching.

 

“Okay then,” the doctor turns to Pete. “Watch him tonight, vomiting, dizziness, all bad signs. Any concerns, bring him right back.”

 

Out in the parking lot, Pete laces their fingers once more. This time, Patrick lets him.

 

“So, Baby P?” Pete whispers. Patrick’s cheeks ache with the smile that glows from him. “Can I kiss you?”

 

Patrick slides a hand around the back of the honey-gold stretch of Pete’s neck and hauls him close, pausing the split and crackle of time before their lips touch, savouring the heat of warm breath ghosting over his lips.

 

“Like you need to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you moments of fluff. Thanks for reading again this week and if you wanted to leave kudos or comments I really would be SO grateful. 
> 
> You can stop my Tumblr [here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers)


	18. You break his heart, I break your face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick discovers who his friends are...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm going to ramble for a little this week, are you braced?
> 
> First, the chapter title is taken from Some Kind of Wonderful and seems so very appropriate. Secondly, thank you hugely to laudanum_cafe for once again taking the time to read this and offer invaluable feedback.
> 
> Now then. 
> 
> NOW. THEN.
> 
> The utterly amazing the_chaotic_panda has created the amazing artwork you can see below. I honestly adore it in every detail. Please, go and read her work on AO3 [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda) (Dead on Arrival is AMAZING) or check out her other equally brilliant artwork over on Tumblr [HERE](https://the-chaotic-panda.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/161115749@N03/39824590514/in/dateposted/)  
> 

Patrick bites a bruise into the curve of his lower lip as he watches Pete move around the room. He’s fresh from the shower, mohawk dripping diamonds that glitter against painted skin, jeans laid low on narrow hips, the dark curl of pubic hair shadowed in his open zipper.

Patrick wants him so badly it makes his stomach cramp.

Pete stretches, arms extended over his head and each pull and curve of sinuous muscle dragged decadently taut as he flexes fingertips towards the ceiling, bouncing on his toes a little. There’s a delicious hollow just at his shoulder that Patrick aches to lick, the razor-sharp definition of his ribs that beg for Patrick’s lips. He moans without meaning to, swallowing the sound in a pathetic cough as Pete glitters the gleam of a gaze sharp with knowing right at him. Pete’s lips quirk into smirk, his shoulders rolling as reaches down to rub a hand over his crotch. Patrick looks away so fast the burn of it sparks with brilliant liquid agony up his neck and through his jaw, pooling under his tongue with the greedy flood of saliva.

Pete doesn’t say a word, leans back against the desk with that filthy grin smeared like stage paint against his lips as he spreads his legs and carries on rubbing. Clean skin under dirty denim; Patrick can remember the taste, the smell, the way Pete felt in his mouth. Pete’s cock stiffens under his own touch, Patrick can see the thickened swell of it outlined like promises, the leaking tip jutting up to crest the line of his zipper.

“Are you hard, Baby P?” Pete asks, soft temptation and heated desire in the ember-glow of his eyes, threats of fire that could consume everything around them in the flame of his voice. Patrick nods because – so help him – he _is_ , he’s throbbing with blood and need. “Why don’t you show me?”

Pete’s hand gropes into his jeans, fingers brushing through jet-dark curls as he slides his hand around his cock and eases himself free. For a moment, he lets Patrick watch, lets him see the blood-dark curve of it up against the ink stain bright on his stomach. Dangerous thoughts dance in Patrick’s mind, the urge to lick, to suck, to let Pete fuck his mouth as he sinks his nails into the coppered curve of Pete’s ass.

“I… We can’t,” Patrick whispers, lust clouding judgement to doubt as he watches Pete wrap the length of his fingers around the gorged thrust of his cock. Blood floods from neurons to need with startling speed, sense draining from his brain to pool in his crotch, to stiffen his dick until everything he is focuses with drawn-tight sharpness on the way his boxers rub just under the head. He’s not sure he remembers why they can’t.

“Come on,” Pete urges, voice laced loose with temptation, the master of terrible decisions as he lilts a moan that strikes the beat of Patrick’s pulse along the lust-flush length of his cock. “How long has it been?”

Patrick pauses, barely able to think. How long has it been since he’s got off? Sprawled on Pete’s bed after Evanston, cock wrapped in rubber as Pete sucked him like he could taste him. He wants to refuse, to tell Pete to knock that shit off and roll over.

But more than that, he wants to come.

His hesitance seems to hum through Pete, to flush his skin rose gold, to have his cock twitching in his hand as he groans through gritted teeth. They’re not touching, Patrick reminds himself, already fumbling blindly for a condom in his nightstand, eyes drawn to Pete with an inevitability that frightens him. He’s helpless in the face of it, fingers thick and clumsy as he rolls the rubber down his cock and seizes himself with a moan.

He sinks the press of his teeth into his lip as shock-sharp sensation stutters out and out from the fingertips through the suddenly-sensitive length of his prick. He’s taut through every muscle, the hardness of his cock shivering each inch of him tight with stuttering need as Pete strokes and moans and leaks over his fingers and Patrick watches and holds and tries not to come.

Some absent part of Patrick wonders if this is the first time for Pete since that night. If this is the only time since a night that feels a lifetime ago when they twisted together on a twin bed and wrote love songs in nail scrape ruby and pearl streaked stomachs. Pete’s tugging harder, hand smoothing faster as he breathes desire to crackle between them like static, screaming into Patrick’s ears like  feedback burnt from lust.

Patrick moves his hand, sliding up from the base of his cock, rolling over the tip still as wound-tender as if there were nothing separating skin from skin. He strokes back down, thumb taut to the underside and pressing into the swell of his balls. He strokes back down, fingers tightly twisted into the comforter beneath him, heels sunk in for purchase and hips arched in greed. He pulls back up and shatters to starlight, Patrick shivers down through his skin and sinew and blood and atoms as his cock thrusts up into the ravening grasp of his palm, his throat burnt to copper-filmed ash as he shouts something between a curse, a prayer and Pete’s name.

Patrick comes, hot and liquid and apparently endless into the sticky wrap of lubed latex and the second-hand warmth of the press of his palm. Patrick comes and wonders if he might burst into flames from it, tongue sticky with the need to taste, body aching for the press of something else. Patrick comes and it crackles through him like lightning, blood roaring in his ears like thunder.

Skin stinging and heart slamming a symphony through his ribs, through his veins, he falls back to the mattress, over too fast to even sweat. Pete is still stroking himself, gasping nonsense through half-parted lips, “So fucking hot, fuck you’re amazing, so amazing, gonna come, gonna come, gonna…”

“Do it,” Patrick’s throat is hoarse, scraped and bruised as he props himself on an elbow to watch, to dream of the taste of salt and skin. “Fuck yeah, I want to watch you…”

“On you?” Pete growls round teeth twisted into the flush of his lip. “Fuck, P, _on_ you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick squeezes the slippery slick twitch of his cock, hips bucking with the burn of sensitivity. “Please.”

Pete staggers on lust-drunk feet to stand by Patrick’s bed, each choppy jerk on his cock deafening with the scrape of skin to skin. He’s sticky-tipped and glistening, it’s all Patrick can do not to reach up, just flicker his tongue and taste the bitter-salt bloom of it on his tongue. He slides a hand around the curve of Pete’s hip, fingers scoring into the heat of desire-bloomed skin as Pete shudders, hisses a curse between the grit of clenched-tight teeth and begins to come.

The warm slick of it pulses across Patrick’s face, stains his lips with the taste, washes him with the smell of sex and want as Pete laces fingers to tighten in the gold of Patrick’s hair. He stutters with stammering hips as he whines half-formed declarations that fall with the dash of his release against the heat of Patrick’s skin. Patrick tastes it, touches it with fingertips that swear they don’t remember, pushing them into his mouth to suck from salted skin and it’s almost the same… almost…

They calm to the ring of breathing that burns through a single set of lungs. Pete falling to the mattress in the same instant that Patrick remembers, that he springs to his feet and rushes for the bathroom with a barely audible mutter.

“You can’t touch me,” he grips the condom in place like a vice. _Poisonous, dangerous, stupidstupidstupid._

“P, wait – ”

“I have to shower,” he shuffles on weak knees knocked to stagger into the bathroom, shower cranked high as the room floods with burning steam. His skin blooms crimson under the spray as he yanks off the condom and scrubs until he’s raw. He took a risk, a stupid risk, all for the sake of his big, dumb dick.

“P?” Pete is hammering at the door, fists beating rhythms like the crashing pound of Patrick’s heart. “Open the fucking door, P! You – you can just… You can’t keep running from me like this! Open the damn door!”

The only thing that stings him more than the heat is the guilt.

~*~

He’s on the couch eating chips – salsa counts as a vegetable, he’s sure of it – and watching Knight Rider when the front door crashes open and the house seems to fill.  He jolts upright, Doritos spilling across his lap, tapping theatrically to the floor as he blinks confusion through thick-lensed glasses at the procession of people spilling into his living room.

Okay, it’s actually three people, but it feels like a lot to someone that spends his life in isolation.

Joe grins at him, helplessly hesitant as he peeks over Pete’s shoulder and a sheepish scratch scored to the back of his neck. He’s flushed and stuttering as Pete shoves him forward with a laugh, boots scuffing against the hardwood as he braces his hands against the back of the sofa and shrugs in that way that’s wonderfully him. He’s saying things Patrick can barely hear – whispered words falling from parted lips as Patrick staggers to his feet and stands facing his friends in confusion.

“… so I guess, I dunno,” Joe shrugs as though he doesn’t know what else to do, palms up in defeat. “Pete said… Look, I’m just… I’m sorry, man. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Patrick says around a mouth dried with confusion. Andy smiles at him from the doorway, Chris punching Pete on the shoulder. He looks back at Joe. “I mean… you had every right. I guess I’m sorry I – ”

“I split your face open,” Joe squints at Patrick’s eyebrow for a moment. “You’re gonna have a _gnarly_ scar, dude.”

“It might not scar,” Patrick touches it self consciously, the neat bisection of his eyebrow scored in crimson under surgical tape. He heaves a sigh as Joe raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s totally gonna fucking scar. I’m telling everyone it was a bar fight.”

“Righteous,” Joe’s painted with a sun-bright smile as he hops the couch and draws Patrick into a hug. “I’m definitely not gonna fuck you, though.”

Patrick laughs, the noise foreign, the contraction of his vocal cords almost completely forgotten as he leans back into the couch cushions. There are combat boots kicked up on his mom’s coffee table – she’ll kill him, he knows – an arm around his shoulders and everything falls back into place. Andy joins them, debating the merits of Hasselhoff’s master plan this week as Pete… Patrick isn’t sure where Pete is, just knows that it’s _nice_ to feel like he’s home.

They’re halfway through the episode when the TV clicks to jet black silence, the picture receding to a dot of white that vanishes in a moment, a reverse big bang, the world of normality hauled away and dragged to nothing as Patrick blinks at the screen in confusion. Joe and Andy shift away from him, the couch suddenly empty as footsteps thud across the living room floor.

Patrick isn’t big on expressing his emotions, not any more, not since a hard clinic chair and a slow burn condemnation. He’s not sure how to phrase the way the feelings pulse in his veins, the way they tighten his chest and blur his vision blue at times, like he’s drowning and no one can see. He doesn’t know how so instead he just _doesn’t._ But he can’t bite off the gasp as Pete steps into his line of vision, skinny jeans with a scarf around the knee, Social Distortion shirt with a tie looped loose around his neck, tuxedo jacket patched and pinned and glittering with studs. He can’t fight the ridiculous tears that flood his vision – he’s not crying, he’s _not_ , goddammit – as Pete mutters a monologue he can’t comprehend.

There’s a red rose in Pete’s lapel, a flash of crimson like blood streaked against the jet of his jacket. There’s a matching one tacked to Patrick’s leather jacket that he holds out like a formal invitation as Patrick seems to drop back into the room.

“Well?” Pete prompts, eyebrows raised in expectation. Patrick blinks at him in confusion. “Come on, P, the dance? You coming?”

“Dance?” he repeats, slow and stupid as he takes the jacket and shrugs it on. He’ll go anywhere for Pete, do anything, Pete already knows. “What do you…?”

“Spring formal,” Pete offers his elbow like Patrick’s a debutante. He feels utterly ridiculous but takes it anyway. “Will told me.”

Patrick falters, smile slipping soft from his lips as he stares at Pete, frozen sharp as unexpected headlights as he blinks his objection at that streak of ruby on Pete’s lapel. “Dude. I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Pete grins, Cheshire cat wide, moonlit skies and terrible ideas framed with the flex of fingers tugging a pair of tickets from his pocket. “You’re a student, you’ve got a ticket. You can even bring a date. Me, in case you were wondering.”

Patrick feels as though he’s done nothing but wonder since a night in a smoke-hazed club somewhere across town, drunk on wine coolers and impending adulthood. He’s lived an endless loop of questions and choices with no clearly defined answers, no well-trodden path laid out in front of him. He’s just closed his eyes, eased his foot onto the gas and hoped for the best. Pete squeezes his arm and Patrick can’t think, can’t breathe, can only nod then shake his head, then sink to the couch and cradle his head in his hands.

His thoughts don’t make sense, none of it, a tattered mess of half words and almost stammerings that won’t make their way over the thickened tip of his tongue. Pete is on his knees, honeyed hands gripping tight to Patrick’s shoulders as he whispers reassurance like soft prayers into his ear.

“You’ll be fine, P,” he promises and Patrick wants – oh, how Patrick _wants_ – to believe him. “You deserve to be there, you – you fucking _deserve_ it…”

“I can’t,” he whispers at the toes of his boots. “I just…”

“You _are,”_ Joe insists with authority that makes Patrick jump. He’d forgotten Joe was there. “Because I stole my dad’s Beemer to drive you and he’s gonna fucking kill me. So, you’re going. Kind of non-negotiable, dude.”

Patrick goes. He climbs to his feet with the discordant pound of his heart thrumming sharp against his eardrums, his knees weak-willed as he leans on Pete for a moment. Pete brushes a kiss to his lips, crooks his elbow once more and with the ghost of a grin curling his lips, he gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

They do.

They sit in silence in the back of Joe’s car – Joe’s _dad’s_ car, Dr Trohman is going to hit the fucking _roof_ – while Joe and Andy fight over the stereo. Pete’s thumb grazes a score of passionate tenderness into his knuckles as Patrick’s stomach swirls his nerves. But something shifts in his chest, some warm, close sense of belonging, of _being_ , as they round the corner and Glenbrook looms into view. He has Pete, he has his friends and, for the moment, he has the world. Who knows how long that might last, but right now, right in this tiny fold of time, he decides it doesn’t matter.

He’s halfway out of the car before he notices them, the way they lounge against the frames of wound down windows, how they lean back against ratty upholstery painted in leather and metal. He looks at Pete, confused, greeted with a smile bright enough to blind him. He knows these people, maybe not by name, but these are the faces that have screamed back his lyrics, the lips that have twisted to their anthems and made them something _more_. These, more than any kid lounging around the punch bowl in the school gym, these are his contemporaries, these are his people.

If there’s a battle to be fought tonight, this is his army.

“What did you – ”

“They know you got excluded,” Pete reassures him. “Nothing more than that. Don’t worry.”

For once, Patrick doesn’t worry. No one moves from the cars as Pete and Patrick make their entrance like it’s a goddamn movie premiere. The teacher checking tickets squints at them for a moment, briefly distracted by Pete before focusing on Patrick as their fingers brush casually with the exchange of photocopied card. Mr Miles – Patrick’s home room teacher for two years. Recognition pools across the features that shift from disinterested to fraught with fear as Patrick’s stomach flips. He cowers, yanking back his hand like he’s been burnt, the tickets fluttering to the table between them.

“Is there a problem?” there’s danger in Pete’s smile, warning in his eyes as he pushes the tickets towards Mr Miles. “Through there, right?”

“He – he can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Pete’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper, it screams through Patrick like a battle cry. “He has a ticket. I’m his date.”

Mr Miles clearly decides in that moment that he isn’t paid enough for this shit, chair scraping back against linoleum as he scrapes his hand raw against the front of his slacks.

_“He,”_ and he spits the word like bitter poison caught on the tip of his tongue, head inclined towards Patrick as he keeps wiping his hand. “Shouldn’t be here.”

“Pete,” Patrick murmurs, hand snagging in the back of Pete’s jacket, tugging him back half a step. “Let’s just – ”

“No,” Pete still hasn’t raised his voice, quietly measured as he raises his chin in arrogant defiance. Patrick isn’t sure if he’s going to throw his arms around him or slap him. “You’re a student here, it’s a school dance, you’re going in.”

“I’m calling the principal,” Mr Miles declares. “Get out. No one _wants_ you here.”

“Oh, gee, sorry to be a bother,” Pete’s sincerity is agonising in its insincerity as he pulls Patrick back towards the door. “You have it your way.”

Patrick is as surprised as the Mr Miles as Pete pushes open the door, every inch the model citizen as he pauses to allow Patrick to follow him. Then he raises his hands, slips two fingers into his mouth and lets loose a whistle that rings through Patrick’s blood.

That’s when things begin to escalate.

They descend like marauders, like a hoard, like an angry army of shredded denim and studded leather as they leap from cars and vans and trucks on command. They swarm towards the doors – 20? 30? 40? Patrick doesn’t know – whooping and roaring like a pack as Pete squeezes Patrick’s hand with a smile that sparkles like sunrise.

“You ready to fuck shit up, Baby P?” he twinkles with something Patrick can’t describe, some core-bright heat that bursts from him to flood Patrick’s heart with song as they shove open the doors together and barrel for the gym.

Mr Miles shout is lost to the blood ringing in his ears but he’s sure it’s something about the police. Really, is there any other way for this to end, hands caught tight as they hurl themselves towards the gym doors. Patrick has no idea what will face them on the other side, he hasn’t thought about it, hasn’t thought about anything beyond the way Pete smiles, the absent contemplation of how he might look with laughter lines and silver caught amongst the jet of his hair. Things he supposes he’ll never see but what does it matter right now, while he’s crashing the dance like some kind of movie star. They slam to the doors together, the heft of them staggering. Patrick is ready to fight, to do battle, to throw back his head and howl out the frustration in the way he did so many months before on a stage slick with sweat.

They skid to a halt for a brief moment. Nothing is unusual, no recognition of the rules they’re allegedly breaking, just shitty suits and shiny dresses and bored kids around a punch bowl while Spandau Ballet plays in the background. There’s no riot, no school hall brawl, nothing but a few poisonous whispers and the edge of feet away from them. The confused silence last a moment, maybe more, just several hundred sets of eyes wondering why two dudes clad in plaid and leather have fallen through the door.

Then the rest arrive.

They spill into the room, jostling past Pete and Patrick, filling the room with voices and movement. It’s suddenly a most pit, the thud of boots and fists and twirling bodies that collide against one another like car crashes. Pete crushes Patrick to him for a moment, stealing a kiss in the swirling maelstrom of movement, the flicker of his tongue brief and sweet against Patrick’s lips. Patrick decides to let it happen, to let the world stare and raise his middle finger to anyone that dares to challenge them. Patrick – bolstered by chaos and impassioned by the taste of cigarettes and Altoids – decides to just be a little more _Pete._

They’re separated as the crowd thickens, as the jocks take their leave to start throwing punches that are tossed right back. Patrick turns – alone but not really – and meets Andy’s smile with one of his own. He turns again and sees Chris dragging at streamers hung bold and bright from the wall, another twist of his neck and Joe is there, making out with a girl in the corner – seriously, how is Joe _always_ making out with someone? – his heart soaring with the sense of belonging.

There are teachers and chaperones and adults Patrick doesn’t recognise trying to control the room, to drag the crowd back into line but nothing is working. No screamed threats or thrown insults make any difference as his friends proceed to tear shit to the ground. This is what Patrick has needed, what he’s _craved_ each day in that isolated little teaching room, to drag it all down with him and watch it burn.

Not literally. Shit, he hopes, shiver-dread with panic, that Pete doesn’t have a lighter and a terrible idea.

He searches for Pete, cranes his neck and stretches to his tiptoes as he scans the crowd for that familiar mohawk, for the flash of crimson in his hair. Instead he finds Will, blush-bright and shining with mischief as he – in the only act of rebellion Patrick has ever seen him do – tips the punch bowl from the tables, the contents a tidal wave of sticky-sweet kool-aid across the gym floor.

Spandau Ballet drifts to a close and it’s The Psychedelic Furs – _Pretty in Pink_ – a song that makes Patrick think of mix tapes and stolen kisses, summer nights by the lake in a shitty Edsel with fingerprints stained into his skin. He closes his eyes and smiles as the lights come on and paint patterns of block-bold colour against his eyelids, as the adults fight desperately for control they can’t win. He blinks back into the room in time to see the walls painted blue from the outside, to faintly hear the whir and roar of sirens from outside. Glenview PD has little to keep them entertained in such a sleepy little suburb, they’ll be talking about this at the station for months, Patrick’s sure.

The room is emptying, kids swirling away like the flood to a drain, the floor sticky slick with punch and fruit that splashes pretty dresses and stains pressed pants. Patrick smiles.

He sees him suddenly, blinking furious disbelief at the wall as Pete clings to the folded back bleachers. Something floods Patrick’s chest with warmth at the sight, at the shine of that grin he hasn’t seen in weeks, at the way his honey gold skin – where is his _shirt?_ – glows under artificial light. He’s so handsome when he smiles like that, so ridiculously, ethereally beautiful that Patrick’s gut aches with it. He’s screaming his _fuck you_ down at the crowd below him, his tie still flapping against the ink-laced stain of his skin, copper eyes glowing as he seeks out Patrick’s gaze across the gym.

“You!” he bellows. Patrick blinks – too in love to embarrassed, too far gone to feel anything but the stretch of his own grin. “Patrick fucking Stumph! I fucking _love_ you, asshole!”

But the police sirens chase them down, he watches Pete hurl himself down with a shriek, watches him crash to the gym floor with a thump then roll to his feet. Pete barrels towards him, converse tossing up a rainbow of spilled punch as he snags Patrick’s hand on his way for the fire exit.

“P,” he yells, fingers tangling as he tugs Patrick forward. Patrick is laughing, the bubble of it foreign in his chest as Pete does the same, as they lean into one another with warm shoulders and career for the door. “Come on! Fucking _run!”_

Patrick runs. He runs until his legs ache and his lungs burn with the effort as they join the riot of kids pouring from the school. He’s in so much shit, he’s the only one Mr Miles knows, on Monday he’s pretty sure he’s going to be expelled.

But it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because for a few minutes, he forgot who he is now. He forgot about the diagnosis, about the medication and was nothing more than the Patrick that sat on a shattered stage and knew he was living the best night of his life. That’s what he can take from tonight, not the shit that will follow, but the things that _are._

The music rings out after them and Pete sings, tuneless and terrible and with eyes only on Patrick. _Caroline talks to you softly sometimes, she says, "I love you" and "Too much,” she doesn't have anything you want to steal, well, nothing you can touch…_

Pete smiles and leads him down a residential street, tugging him as their laughter rings and echoes back from the houses around them until they find Betsy slouched against the kerb.

“You hid her out here?” Patrick raises an eyebrow like he isn’t secretly impressed. Pete just grins and grabs a shirt from the backseat, shrugging it on and slipping into the driver’s door. “You… _anticipated_ losing your shirt?”

“You sound surprised,” Pete says, grin glowing bright as the silvered moon that drifts between spring-rain gossamer clouds. Patrick wants to stay where is forever, just freeze this moment and never stop living it.

They drive in silence, radio fuzzing in and out of static in a way that feels like it might be appropriate to Patrick. He rests a hand on Pete’s knee, the warmth of that caramel skin searing bright enough to burn through the rip in his jeans. They roll through Wilmette, windows down and cool breeze ruffling their hair as they head to the lake. Patrick can smell it, the scent of the water sharp in his nose as Pete noses the car to the same place they parked a lifetime ago, when he was nothing but a kid with a desperate desire to have his dick sucked. It feels a little like coming home, like if he just wishes hard enough, he can see that kid - the arrogant, stupid, _innocent_ little asshole - all stretched out on the seat like the world would end if he didn’t get off.

They wriggle to the backseat in that familiar way, arms hauling bodies warm and close as they curl together to the beat of the radio. Pete’s hand finds its way under the hem of Patrick’s shirt, stroking possession into the sweat-damp skin of his back. Patrick tucks his head to Pete’s shoulder, lips soft against the gilded gold of his throat, the tick-throb of his pulse just beneath the surface soothing. They sit in silence, Patrick wonders what Pete’s thinking but mostly just content to _be_ , just for a while at least as the world rotates around them.

It’s Pete that breaks it, softly, hesitantly, like everything will shatter to shards, crushed underfoot if he speaks too loudly, “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick doesn’t hesitate, not like before, not like the times he was unsure and not enough. He knows it now, it’s in every tender touch and gentle kiss, in the way he catches Pete looking at him with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Sure. I love you, too. You know?”

“Good,” Pete finds Patrick’s lips, soft and sweetly sure. Shivers stutter Patrick’s spine, lock him taut and helpless in Pete’s arms as he _yearns_ for more. He assumed the kissing would ease the craving for contact, thought that if they could curl together with the press of damp mouths and teasing tongues then he wouldn’t ache for Pete between his legs.

He breaks away, fighting to flood his lungs with oxygen as Pete stares at him – wide-eyes swirling like liquid gold – knuckles soft to the curve of Patrick’s cheek. Patrick needs to say it, needs to articulate the thoughts that have plagued him for months though his heart contracts at the thought.

“We need to break up,” he slurs in a rush, foolish lips stammering around the thickened tip of his tongue.

Pete blinks in confusion, copper gaze glazed with uncertainty, unsure grin faltering shyly around the curve of lips that Patrick adores.

“What?” Pete asks softly, confusion sun bright as he leans back against the seat. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend _this_ is what you want,” Patrick gestures in a way that encompasses him and the disease all in one faltering brush of his hand against his front. “You… You can do better. I mean, like, you always _could_ , I’m the last – the last guy you should ever have picked but… Yeah. I’m letting you… like, find what you deserve. Or whatever.”

He lapses into silence and waits for Pete to respond. Pete shifts, fingers grasping the curve of Patrick’s chin as he tilts his head up to meet the blaze of a molten amber gaze. Patrick blinks like he can ward off the intensity, like he can sink away to something safe and secure and not the precipice he feels as though he’s been standing on for the past few months. He wishes for stillness in the tempest of thoughts he can’t control, in the urge he’s had to end it all on more than one occasion and set everyone free.

“You know it makes sense,” he insists, voice small as he wishes it didn’t. “I’m _dying_ , and wishful thinking won’t – it’ can’t change that. Do you want to bury me before you’re thirty and, like, do this all again? You said it would be… easier. With a girl. Remember? You can find a pretty girl and – ”

“And what?” there’s fury in Pete’s voice, blazing in his eyes as he hisses his objection through the grit of his teeth. “What then?”

“Then you have a life,” Patrick shrugs as though it isn’t tearing him apart, as though the sensible, rational reasoning can overcome the catch of his tears. “We can’t even fuck. Shit, Pete, don’t – don’t you miss it? You should – ”

The kiss comes out of nowhere, the brush of lips and tongues and damp warmth as Pete curls possessive fingers that thrum with want into Patrick’s hair. He growls his objection between biting at Patrick’s lips, snarls his need into Patrick’s throat as he grazes his mouth everywhere he can reach from the line of Patrick’s brow to the hem of his shirt.

“I keep saying it,” Pete whispers, feather soft and fraught with need, the burning salt of their tears mingling against their skin, chilling damp in the cool spring air as they steal the oxygen from one another in the car that doesn’t seem to have enough to share. “I’m not afraid of you, P. I love you.”

Pete cocks his head as the radio crackles with a song. Patrick recognises it, Cyndi Lauper? Something like that, the opening bars dancing tantalisingly around their edges as Pete holds him close and brushes kisses to his cheeks.

“Dance with me?” he murmurs and Patrick laughs around hiccupping sobs, the thought ridiculous but then so is Pete. “Come on, P. Dance with me?”

“You’re so lame,” Patrick whispers, but he lets Pete haul him out of the car. When was he ever able to resist him? Maybe another Patrick, in another time and place, maybe _that_ Patrick could say no to Pete. He’s not sure such a Patrick exists in this or any other universe.

Pete cranks the volume and flicks on the headlights as he slips back into the front seats and out onto the grass. Patrick moves to him, head resting soft against the curve of Pete’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck. Pete’s hands rest at Patrick’s waist, thumbs dipping like a dare into the studded leather at his belt loops.

There, cast golden in the beam of the Edsel’s headlights, the stars like sentinels above them, they sway together. Pete hauls him in close, hands against his hips as Patrick twines his arms – so pale, washed to milk in the moonlight – around the gilded glow of Pete’s neck. Their lips brush, just a moment, chaste and sweet, bodies rocking back and forth in time to the music.

“You have to get a dance, P,” Pete murmurs into his hair. “Everyone gets a last dance.”

“Shut up, asshole, you’re ruining it,” Patrick mumbles into the caramel and liquorice. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend the tears are raindrops, the same as the ones that cascaded onto him outside of VOID a lifetime ago, back when he was the kid on his knees in a dark van. He knows in the shatter-snapped pieces of his heart that he’ll never be that kid again.  Behind them, Cyndi writes their love story in lyrics, words Pete whispers into his ear like that makes them his own.

_Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick and think of you_

_Caught up in circles confusion Is nothing new_

_Flashback warm nights, almost left behind_

_Suitcase of memories, time after_

_Sometimes you picture me, I'm walking too far ahead_

_You're calling to me, I can't hear what you've said_

_Then you say go slow, I fall behind_

_The second hand unwinds…_

Patrick presses his face to Pete’s neck, heaves his scent and catalogues it, stores it somewhere safe for the time he’s sure will come where Pete isn’t there. He memorises the press of palms to the small of his back and the way Pete’s skin feels under his hands. He hordes it all like a time capsule, hidden and captured like a photograph of sensation as Pete brushes a kiss to his mouth. He may not have forever – may not have very long at all – but he has right now. Twirling slowly under the glow of headlights to the crackling hum of a thirty-year-old radio, Patrick supposes that might be enough.

_If you’re lost you can look and you will find me_

_Time after time_

_If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting_

_Time after time_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think semi_sweet summed it up best when she said that Patrick would never be the kid by the lake again. Writing this is proving to be far harder than I ever imagined it would be and I know I'm not coming close to doing it justice, the fear and isolation coupled with teenage insecurity, it's unimaginable. If you had five minutes, I really recommend giving the Cyndi Lauper song Time After Time a listen - I really do feel it sums their relationship up far more beautifully than I ever could.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading every week and if you wanted to leave kudos or comments, both are really so appreciated.
> 
> You can stop my Tumblr [here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers)


	19. It was your bright idea, smarty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick celebrates...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back! So, this is the penultimate chapter, next week will be the last visit to 1987, thank you all so much for getting this far.
> 
> And thank you so much to laudanum_cafe for helping out with this. You're the very best!

Hope grows in small ways.

 

He feels it, the smallest barely-glowing spark in the centre of his chest, as he sits with Ms Hartley and completes his calculus classes. He’s still not good at math and he’s never going to go to college and god knows, he has no idea how the hell he didn’t get expelled after the incident at the dance. But it’s there in the way she _knows_ but doesn’t hate him for it. It’s there as a reminder that maybe he isn’t a monster.

 

Hope is there at each doctor’s visit. His mom pays for a specialist, someone that monitors him month by month and mutters reassurance in numbers Patrick doesn’t understand but that everyone assures him are _good._ He may actually be starting to hope that he might get more than five years. Maybe a decade - ten years to laugh and live and be _free._ He can make a lot of memories in ten years, he’s sure of it, give Pete something to remember with a smile.

 

He feels hopeful as he watches Will and Sarah, sees her stomach swell with life and reminds himself that it’s all a cycle. He helped make Will who he is, a lifetime of shared experience and stolen wine coolers has to have left tiny fragments of himself lodged in his best friend like shrapnel. Pieces of his personality that can’t be washed away that - maybe - Will might hand down to the kid. Barely there spots of Patrick in a child that will live and learn and _grow up_ so that, in some way, it’ll be like he’s there. Uncle Patrick - barely remembered but caught up in a brand new life forever. He likes that thought.

 

He wouldn’t describe himself as ready to die. He hopes - there it is again, _hope_ \- that readiness will come with time and that, when the inevitable happens, that he’ll face it bravely. He hopes someone will hold his hand although, if he’s honest, the fear of going alone isn’t quite the same vicious spectre it once was. His mom loves him, of that he’s unshakably sure. His brother and sister, too. And then there’s Pete, wonderful, brash, middle-finger-raised-in-readiness, perfectly imperfect Pete.

 

No, Patrick knows he won’t have to face the end alone.

 

But right now, in a bubble of early summer sunshine in the backyard, he knows it’s not something he needs to worry about. Pete is shirtless - when is Pete _not_ shirtless? - sprawled on the grass as he reads _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest._ He says it resonates with him; the loss of control lost to rigid rules set by those around him. He says it’s a reflection of society’s attitude towards things they don’t understand. He’s tried to read it out loud to Patrick but if he’s being honest it just felt kind of weird being read to like a toddler so instead, he lets Costello trickle through his headphones as he props his head on the sun-warmed skin of Pete’s stomach.

 

Eyes closed and half lost in the sensation of Pete’s nails scraping soft through his hair, he only knows he’s speaking by the way his chest vibrates with it. He ignores it, too lost in the lyrics to pull himself away, drifting too close to something like blissful sleep as he keeps his eyes closed and huffs his irritation into the collar of his shirt.

 

Pete pulls the headphones from his ear - he’s a fucking dick sometimes, seriously - and rolls away, laughing as Patrick thumps to the grass with a curse.

 

“What do you _want_ , dickweed?” Patrick snaps in the instant before lips close over his and he’s wrestled under a wriggling Pete, hips caught to hips as he struggles - not really, but who’s checking - to free himself from the prison of Pete’s thighs. “Knock it off, shithead.”

 

He surrenders, slumped-soft back to the grass as Pete pins his hands above his head and grins gleaming diamonds down at him. He feels too hot, flushed and damp with sweat that mists his brow and under his arms as he blinks up, bright with expectation, for the butt of the joke. Pete lets go of his wrists but the pressure of his fingertips feels branded into the pale of Patrick’s skin.

 

“We have a show tonight,” Pete is glowing gold, shining with that precious sort of radiance that Patrick didn’t understand until it was his. He cups Pete’s face, strokes his thumbs across the arch of sharp cheekbones and draws him down until their noses brush with a nod. Pete pauses, smiling softly in the silence that radiates between them, dark brows arched in teasing question. “Don’t you want to know where it is?”

 

Patrick almost wants to shake his head because - and he’s not being an asshole here, really he’s not - what does it matter? What difference does it make which shitty club or bar or basement intends to take them? There’s a tour planned for a couple weeks time, a few more weeks where they’ll head across the north east of the country in the hope of… what? It doesn’t matter, the destination no longer makes any difference to Patrick, it’s just the journey, the hum of highway and half-assed fighting over who read the map wrong.

 

“Go ahead,” he urges, ghosting kisses to the curve of Pete’s lips. “Impress me, motherfucker.”

 

“Oh, I think I can,” Pete smirks in a way that floods blood from Patrick’s brain straight to his dick. He’s getting good at ignoring that, good at pretending it’s not an issue and Pete is pretty good at faking the same. Five months since they last… It doesn’t matter. He swears it doesn’t. Pete brushes his lips to Patrick’s earlobe, soft against the velvet smoothness of it as he breathes the word into his ear like a prayer. “Exit.”

 

Patrick almost headbutts him in his effort to struggle upright, Pete heavy on his thighs as he stares at him, wide eyed with hesitant hope.

 

“Dude,” he mutters, words half-hushed on whispered breath as he blinks uncertainty into the copper glow of Pete’s eyes. “You know it’s really not cool to fuck with a dying kid, right? Like, if I had something sexier some asshole would be sending me to swim with dolphins or to like, Disneyland or something but - ”

 

“P,” Pete interrupts, smile smudged from his face as he sighs the heartache into a gusting breath. Patrick blinks up at him, confused - why does he never get it? - shoulders hitched in a shrug. “Don’t.”

 

Patrick falters with nervous energy. He doesn’t want Pete to tiptoe around the way things are, he wants to be able to make a joke of his own situation if he chooses. But Pete is still raw from Mikey’s funeral the month before and Patrick isn’t quite recovered from the way he refused to speak for three days, locked in silent grief that didn’t seem to be entirely for his ex. He knows Pete’s still imagining another funeral, another day, another boy in a coffin too early but… Patrick can’t articulate it, the way he doesn’t want everyone around him to see him as an ending. He’s a here and now for the moment and that matters to him.

 

“Exit,” Patrick repeats, smile shining wide. “Fucking _Exit?_ Who the fuck did you blow to get us a show there?”

 

“Oh, you’ll see,” Pete replies, and if it takes a moment for his smile to blaze heated honey across his lips then neither of them mention it as they roll on the grass, a messy tangle of limbs and lips. “Ready to tear shit up, Baby P?”

 

~*~

 

Breaths drawn deep into tight lungs, Patrick twitches a nervous beat into the neck of his guitar at the side of the stage. Everything and nothing, that’s all it is, a culmination of a year of wave cresting highs and valley depth lows, of times when euphoria sang through his veins until he was high on it. And the times when he felt as though drawing the next breath was too painful to contemplate. He knows - yeah, he gets it - that it’s just a show. Just another selection of songs that they’ll scream to a bunch of kids that’ll scream them right back like anthems. He knows it no longer really means anything because how can Pete bring him the world when Patrick can’t even promise him a future?

 

He shrugs it off. It’s harder for this thoughts to make sense and he wonders if maybe Pete’s onto something when he talks about a journal. Maybe if he could scrawl it all out, loop feelings into the rough scratch of black biro on white paper, ordered by pale blue lines then it could start to make sense again. Even if he keeps it to himself, hoards it like stolen riches, locked away safe.

 

But right now, right at this second, there are more pressing matters to deal with. He runs his fingers over the frets like he’s done a thousand times before, staining his skin with the tang of copper wire. He grins at Joe who _still_ can’t figure out if he’s in tune - he is, he always is - and leans into the press of Andy’s hand to his shoulder. And there’s Pete, sparkling with sunrise as he quirks his lamp-flicker of a smile at Patrick right before their lips touch, right before he whispers a good luck and lands a playful slap to Patrick’s ass.

 

If they’re everything familiar then Exit is everything unknown, bare brick and a smoke stained stage, a crowd muttering with restless need as they stand taut and strained and ready to do battle with the world. If he closes his eyes for a moment, lets the roar and pulse of it run through on electron charged blood cells until he sings with it, he can almost imagine he’s back beside a stage in a basement. He can almost see Pete’s face washed pale and furious as he recognised Baby P, Joe’s eyes on his guitar and Patrick with his drumsticks clutched tight in his hand. He can see the change in them, the battered bruises of battle scars and heartaches and the way the road has forked and twisted from the straight and sure path he imagined it would be.

 

There are so many things he’d change - don’t be fucking ridiculous, of _course_ there are things he’d change - but he thinks he might be okay with where he is. Right now. Right at this second. Standing by the stage in Exit with his guitar strap cutting a scar into his shoulder. Their hands meet as they form a huddle, a mesh of skin and bones and boys all tangled together in ways that will never unpick - Patrick’s sure of it - too caught up in one another to ever completely break apart. The lights drop, the torch flashes and they share a battle cry as the crowd heaves from a low thunder to a raging roar.

 

_Motherfuckin’ F-O-B… Motherfuckin’ F-O-B… MOTHERFUCKIN’ F-O-B..._

 

They take the stage like they’re taking revenge. They swarm it, screamed lyrics and pounding rhythm that catches and snags on blood cells to drive through him with each pulsing throb of his heart. It crackles around them until he’s sure he can feel the spark of it, the hair on his arms raised from the static hum of it. He sings each line like they’re the last words he’ll get to speak, like he’s carving them in stone for the generations that will swarm behind them into a world he no longer has the foresight to comprehend.

 

Pete works the crowd better than he’s ever worked his bass, the grin glowing from him as he screams into the microphone until Patrick’s sure his own throat aches with the echo of it. He spins and twirls and throws himself around the stage, he and Joe together in a violent parody of ballet as they whirl around Patrick sparked bright with fever-glow fire. It’s like it was and how it’s never been, as they fit and flex together shining like starlight as the music swells over them, weaves around them and leaves Patrick breathless with a stutter-thump heartbeat that pounds in time with the drums.

 

The crowd flood the stage like they always did, the press and crush of bodies around him, of Pete packed in to his side like they’re moulded for one another makes his head spin and his heart soar with it. This time, he doesn’t forget, doesn’t lose what he is now in the roll of music and shredded screaming and sweat-slicked skin. This time, he decides it doesn’t matter. Not for now.

 

When it ends, when the drums crash a final time and his fingers scrape the final nerve-raw chord through their fucked out amps, when the crowd make their final roar and Patrick slumps into Pete’s salt-damp shoulder with the touch of his own slick-wet brow, he knows his smile is burnt to his lips like a brand. Pete’s hand finds his, lacing their fingers and squeezing with a grin that could light the room. It’s fine. Patrick’s _fine._

 

Cables untangle and loop neatly into their proper places in the back of the van. Sweat-stained shirts are exchanged for stuff that makes them smell a little better even if they’re still star-high and blaze-bright. They laugh, Patrick, Andy and Joe as they load kit like puzzle pieces in the way that only they understand. Pete is missing and Patrick wonders why he doesn’t feel a jolt, that fearful bolt of fraught-dark panic that quickens his blood and turns his legs to liquid. It’s different now, he reminds himself that it’s not the same as it was in the months before.

 

But he still goes looking for him.

 

He’s too accustomed to Pete’s presence now, too used to feeling him like a shadow, like a missing limb that’s always there, demanding attention. He finds him soon enough, tucked away in a tiny room at the back of the club, glowing gold in fluorescent light as he shines at someone pressed up close to him.

 

Patrick’s stomach lurches, drops down to the toes of his battered DMs that don’t pinch his feet anymore, broken and moulded to the shape of him. There’s a metaphor in there as he blinks his incomprehension at Pete, as Pete turns and starts in shock, wide-eyed and loose-lipped.

 

“Baby P!” he yelps, voice too high to be natural, too sharp to be innocent as he gestures to the girl behind him. “Oh shit… Fuck, you… you weren’t supposed to…”

 

“Patrick?” she - whoever she is - beams a grin at him that’s bright enough to blind, his blinking speeding a little faster. It’s a little like everyone is fastforwarding the cassette around him, the noises too fast, the movements staccato and unnatural as she holds out a hand for him to shake. No one that’s fucked his boyfriend in the past has ever shook his hand. He shakes back limply, not sure what else to do. “Oh my God, it’s _so_ great to finally meet you! Pete’s been like… I don’t even know, your fucking _guarddog,_ man. I’m Jessie.”

 

“Hi,” he waves, fingers waggling like a toddler as he flushes flame-red and stares at Pete like he absolutely owes him an explanation. Which he does. “Uh… Pete didn’t…”

 

“Tell you about me,” she rolls her eyes at Pete who smiles, all sheepish-soft and innocent. “Of course he didn’t. I’m Jessie Jane - I know, dumb name - I’m a talent scout. For WaxTrax Records.”

 

“WaxTrax Records,” Patrick is apparently reduced to nothing more than slowly opening and closing his mouth as he waits for his brain to catch up and supply him with something sensible to say. His brain is a dick and resolutely leaves him hanging. “I… Pete?”

 

Pete just smiles, tucking the butt of the joke into the curve of his lips as he swings an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. He smells of sweat and cinnamon, of cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes, he smells like he’s Patrick’s with no sharp bite of unknown perfume.

 

“Why don’t we go find Andy and Joe?” he suggests, and the heat that kicks off him is like something palpable, the scorching sense of secrets like christmas gifts. “You’re gonna love this…”

 

 _This_ turns out to be the four of them huddled in a room stained with the smell of smoke and sweat, his hand clasped in Pete’s as Joe’s fingernails bite confused elation into his forearm. _This_ is Pete’s smug as shit streak of a grin splitting his face as Jessie thanks him for inviting her out to the show, for sending demos, for making her life a living hell until she agreed to come and see what they could do.

 

 _This_ is an offer of a record deal delivered in words Patrick can barely comprehend beyond the ringing of blood pounding sharp in his ears.

 

He’s gathered amongst his band, lost in a tangle of sweat and skin and shirts that have no business smelling that bad when they just changed. He surrenders to the screams of elation that tear from his throat to join his friends, as he cries like a skinned-knee-nine-year-old into the hitch of Pete’s chest.

 

“Why didn’t you fucking _tell_ me, asshole?” he demands - another Patrick asked the same question, another Patrick said he thought he was special, another Patrick hummed with hurt. This Patrick is just kind of annoyed he didn’t wear a cooler shirt.

 

“Unnecessary pressure, Baby P,” Pete insists as he grins golden and drags them to the bar. There’s no champagne so they toast their success in cheap beer and take congratulations in punched shoulders and hard hugs.

 

The world around them seems brighter, a stage cast in spotlights awaiting them to take it and shine, a melody scored and caught and captured on cassette. Patrick is floating, walking lightheaded and lighthearted as he leaps on Andy and hollers his excitement through a thronging crowd of kids as proud as he is. It’s there as he smacks a kiss to Joe’s cheek and laughs at the grimace.

 

It’s caught in the press of Pete’s lips to his as they stand at the bar. Maybe people stare, Patrick’s no longer sure, maybe they whisper and drip poison from lips that don’t want to understand. For tonight, Chicago is theirs and the world can go fuck itself.

 

They drop Andy at his apartment, swing Joe by his parent’s place and take the familiar streets to Patrick’s house. The radio is soft, something loud on some pirate station that Pete loves shaking the speakers until the car seats shudder with it. Patrick smiles and stares at the stars, blissful warmth wrapped tight in his lungs.

 

“WaxTrax,” Pete whispers into the gleam-bright reflection of the headlights that glare back to blind them against the garage door. He glows with a grin caught up with the starlight above them, sliced wide and wanting across his face as his knuckles flex pale against the steering wheel. “Fuck… We did it…”

 

Patrick knows what’s coming even before Pete turns to him, before their fingers lace like lifebelts across the stretch of the parking brake. There’s unspoken question in the copper-gleam swirl of his eyes, a plea written in the hesitant way his tongue slips against his lower lip. Patrick delivers his answer in touch, in cupped hands to the line of Pete’s jaw that draw him desperately closer. He replies in lips pushed softly flush, in feathered kisses pressed tender-sweet to a questing mouth that tastes like home.

 

“Baby P,” Pete whispers against his throat, against the hot thrumming beat of his pulse that pounds, discordant and messy and richly _alive_ in his veins. “Fuck, can we? I’m not gonna… I won’t push you, I swear but, like… _can_ we?”

 

The pause hums between them, stuttered with uncertainty and glazed with want. Patrick aches to say yes, to give himself over to nothing more than instinct and the press of Pete’s skin to his. He hesitates, a beat of uncertainty as Pete pulls back, gives him space from lips and hands and gold-glazed skin to breathe, to think, to make his decision free from the influence of taste and touch. He blinks at his shoes, begs the van floor for an answer he knows it can’t give and, eyes bright with salt-sharp need, he surrenders.

 

“Yeah,” he whispers, and his chest tightens like he’s running scared. “I - I want to. Is that bad? That I’m thinking about… _that?_ I mean, shouldn’t I just be… _happy?”_

 

“It doesn’t make us bad people,” Pete insists after a pause and Patrick feels a little flare of spark-bright lust in his gut. _Us._ Pete feels it too, wants it too, wants _Patrick_ even as he is, even with the blackened, twisted ugliness of a diagnosis, even though being with a guy is harder in every quantifiable way. The shimmer of a smile ghosts his lips and he nods, jerk-jolt puppetry. “And like… you know it’s only ever gonna be you for me, yeah? Whatever… however this plays out, if you want to or not, I - I swear I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Patrick knows - he’s not dumb, he swears he’s not, not like he used to be at least - that he could have tried harder to resist. But he knows it’s hard to care, guilt slipping soap-slippery out of his hands as Pete hauls him close, crushes him tight to the scent of skin; cologne and faint sweat that lingers on his shirt. Patrick blinks up, meets eyes like embers and smiles, shaky-shuddered and nervous, like the first time but infinitely worse, immeasurably better.

 

“You want to come up?” he asks. Pete grins.

 

He has little recollection of making it into the house, doesn’t know quite when he lost his shirt or who unfastened Pete’s zipper or how they made it to the bed. He cradles the solid warmth of Pete’s cock in his hand, adjusts to the size-shape-feel of it in his palm once more as Pete licks desperate moans into the hollow of his collarbone.

 

“Suck me,” he begs, breath ghosting hot over spit-slick skin as Patrick tenses above him. “Come on, P. Can’t be dangerous, spit’s not… the doctor said…”

 

On his knees, Patrick fumbles for a condom, rolls slippery-slick latex over the solid swell of Pete’s dick. And sure, he wants to taste, wants to stain his tongue with skin, salt and bitter musk but he can’t. Won’t. The carpet burns into his knees as he moves to take Pete down, fingers curling around the base as he licks a flicker of a tease over the crown. Pete is tense and propped on elbows, brows drawn and jaw tight as he strokes gentle fingers through Patrick’s hair.

 

“I love you,” he whispers, sweetly sincere and darkly desperate, caught up with so much more, with apologies Patrick will never be ready to hear and promises they’ve already exchanged. Patrick smiles his reply and, to a guttural groan that echoes around them, he swallows him down.

 

He sucks Pete’s cock like he needs it to keep breathing, like the world will stagger to a shuddering stop if he loosens his lips from honeyed heat and bitter-tang rubber. He shuffles a hand into his shorts, stroking heat and need along the stiffened length of his own lust-flushed dick and remembers another kid on his knees for a rock star, come staining his skin while he fumbled adoration into the first cock he’d touched. He sucks harder, bobs his head to the roll of honeyed hips and lets Pete tangle his hands in his hair like the twist of thorns around his throat.

 

Pete is slurring fuck-drunk declarations, arched spine and scrabbling heels as he thrusts down Patrick’s throat, cock twitching and breathing sharply stuttered between plush-pout lips. Patrick knows he’s drifting close, wonders if he should just get him off, feel the hot flood of it under the rubber and curl with him to exchange kisses, safe for another night…

 

“Stop,” Pete hisses like it hurts him, like he’s stung raw and desperate with aching need. Patrick sucks harder, runs his thumb over the tender tuck of Pete’s balls until he’s pushed away, urged back with swollen lips stained with spit and spermicide swiped sloppily into the back of his wrist. Pete groans his objection to the ceiling. “Fuck, you can’t… Jesus _Christ_ , P, I swear to God…”

 

In a heartbeat, Patrick is pinned. He’s flipped, moved and maneuvered, his jeans tugged down and his shorts tossed aside as Pete kisses gentle reassurance to his lips, the curve of his throat, the line of his collarbone, kissing powerline shocks into salt-stained skin. Lower and open mouthed touch flickers first-kiss soft against his chest, over his stomach to crest the curve of a hip bone. Patrick sinks his hand into the tangled and tries - he tries so hard - not to feel the clenching cramp of self-loathing in his gut as he pulls Pete back from the leaking flush of his cock.

 

“Don’t,” he pleads, still stretched loose on the bed, smiling sadly as he shakes his head. “You can’t…”

 

It’s never really occurred to him - probably because he’s made sure not to let his thoughts drift to under-the-covers and wrapped in one another - that he’ll never feel the slick heat of Pete’s mouth around him again. He’ll never slide his uncovered cock into the clenching grasp of Pete’s ass, nails sunk into hips as he fucks into him. He’ll never come into anything but clinical latex and secondhand heat and although he tries - he tries so fucking _hard_ , he swears he does - the thought makes him ache with sadness.

 

He bites the sobs into the heels of his hands, muffles them with half-sung moans as Pete pauses, head cocked and unsure, “P?”

 

“Let me keep sucking you,” he offers, hiccuped thick on stuttering breath as he struggles to sit. “Come on, that was righteous, let me just…”

 

Pete hears the tears that well in his voice, traitorous grief that stains his cheeks as the reality thumps like a kick drum in his skull. Pete’s arms engulf him, sweep him close to warm skin streaked with ink, with the good decisions and the bad, with the stain of stage sweat and saltwater that matches his own.

 

“What’s wrong?” Pete whispers and Patrick laughs because it’s a ridiculous question, jaw tilted up by tender fingers and thumbs that swipe away tears. “Seriously, P. What’s on your mind?”

 

“I can never be normal,” it spills from him unchecked, words and syllables caught on the heat of his breath as he snuffles into Pete’s chest. “I’ll never get a blowjob in the bathroom of some bar or - or like… we can never just fuck because there’s no one there and we like… we _want_ to. I’ll… I’m always gonna be a disease. Just… dirty.”

 

They’re silent for a moment, just the tick of the clock and the hum of the cars on the far-off highway that drift through the open window. Patrick wonders where that other him is right now, the one that made the right choices, that one that didn’t fuck up. Is he happy? Is he ass up for some other Pete groaning encouragement into velvet darkness? He hates that kid.

 

“Listen,” Pete begins, as though Patrick could do anything else. “You’re never anything but normal to me, you know? You’re… you’re my Baby P. You’ll _always_ be my Baby P. I promised you the world, I sat on the roof of that car and I promised you it all and I swear to _God_ , P, I’ll fucking give it to you. Do you trust me?”

 

“Yeah.” It rolls from his lips without conscious thought, honesty torn from his chest as he blinks at his knees and realises - yeah. He _does_ trust him.

 

“Yeah?” Pete cups his jaw with warm hands, kneels over him and kisses him like he needs to shotgun the oxygen from Patrick’s lungs. He pulls back, eyes glowing storm-bright in the gloom as he smiles sunrise over lake water. “Then let me make you feel good.”

 

Closed eyes and crossed fingers, Patrick lays back against the cool of his comforter with bare skin and shuddered with shaking breaths. Pete leans over him, cock hard and condom discarded, the naked heat of his shaft pushed against Patrick’s belly as he nudges a ghosted kiss to his mouth.

 

“I love your lips,” he whispers, hot and filthy. “I love how I can _taste_ it when you moan.”

 

Patrick obliges as a warm hand finds his cock, fingers curled around the half-hard swell of it.

 

“Yeah, like that,” Pete murmurs, moving lower. “I love your neck, the way you swallow when you’re trying not to come…”

 

He moves down, every part of Patrick’s body gently kissed, softly stroked with reverent whispers of adoration until he’s loose-limbed and lax against the mattress. Pete kneels between his legs, nudging a kiss to the arch of his foot that tickles him half insane. Pete is so much naked skin, so many whispered promises as he strokes absently at the flushed-thick length of blood-hot cock, the curtain of jet dark hair falling tangled into his eyes as he smiles.

 

Patrick barely notices the condom rolled smooth down his shaft, but it’s hard to notice anything when it’s followed by the heat of Pete’s mouth, hard to do more than cry out and thrust weakly and try desperately not to come. Resolution bitten into the flush of his lip, he strokes Pete’s hair and whispers hungry half words, declarations and pleas around swollen lips and squirming hips. Pete sucks him slowly, torturous pulls of his lips that slick against his nerve-bright prick until it throbs with each thrum of his messy pulse, until his twitching fingertips pick up the pounding rhythm of it and he feels something hot and tight pooling low in his gut.

 

It’s right there, the shimmering promise of sweet release close enough to touch, to taste. It’s nothing more than a hoarse cry away from him as his vision blurs and the sounds around him - heated breathing, the smack of wet lips against hard flesh, his own desperate whines - fade in and out like radio static. There’s something nudging between his cheeks, some hard, unfamiliar presence that takes a moment to register - Pete’s fingers, slick-wet with spit, gently circling the rim of his hole. He nods to no one - to the ceiling fan? The posters that line the wall? - legs kicked apart as Pete presses inside.

 

“Gloves,” he whispers with whatever shred of rational thought he hangs onto focussed on the box of surgical gloves in the nightstand next to the condoms. “There’s gloves… Pete, gloves…”

 

Pete presses further inside, a groan rung ragged from his throat as Patrick clenches tight around him. His fingers twist into the sheets, knuckles burnt pale through stretched taut skin as Pete finds that point, the perfect little thrum tucked deep inside that turns thoughts to liquid and his lungs to ash. Heat, pulsing heat and blood-bright need roll out from the tips of talented fingers to paint his skin bloomed rose-flush and dew-dropped with sweat. He twists his hips, fucks down onto the finger and rocks up into the tight heat of Pete’s throat and, thighs trembling, loses his grip on the edges of reality.

 

The cool slick of lube slides slippery between his cheeks, another finger twisted inside of him, stretching him open as Pete pulls back, sucks sweet on the tip of his cock as sensation crackles like static over his skin. Patrick sinks his fingers into his own hair, tugging sharp on the strands that catch there as the pulsing throb between his legs grows, pounds an insistent beat through his groin and up to his chest. Pete’s free hand roams, strokes heat into his hips, his sides, pinches tingling shocks into the pebbled pink of Patrick’s nipples. Patrick’s going to pass out from the way his lungs hitch and contract or come with an endless scream that will burn his throat raw.

 

Pete releases his cock with a grin, let’s it spring to slap against the softness of Patrick’s stomach as he gasps a curse and a prayer through the clech of his jaw. A third finger presses inside of him, stretches him wide as Pete watches, eyes a golden flicker that bounces from his hand between Patrick’s legs to his eyes and back again. As his callus-rough fingertips massage that spot with maddening precision, it’s all Patrick can do to string together the words to beg.

 

Pete straightens and withdraws, Patrick is aching and empty, shivering need against the sheets as Pete rolls on a condom and slicks himself up, gleaming wet in the low light as he hitches Patrick’s thighs onto his hips. The rubber-sheathed crown of his cock touched the nerve-bold pucker between Patrick’s cheeks. Pete’s eyes glow gold in the shimmer-shine of the street lights outside. He presses forward, the flare of his dick demanding entrance as Patrick, with a hissed curse, locks up tight.

 

Look, it’s not that Patrick doesn’t want this - he wants it more than he wants to draw his next breath. And it’s not that Pete is anything other than sweetly tender, stroking reassurance into the curve of Patrick’s cheek and circling a slow roll of his hips. He just feels - fucking stupid? Completely terrified? - rocked with shivering uncertainty that this is a horrible idea. Is he selfish? A dumb fucking kid with his big, dumb dick begging for attention that puts Pete at risk?

 

“Stop thinking,” Pete whispers like he knows, like he can hear the jumble of staggered thoughts that race a riot through Patrick’s mind. The words collide with the press of his cock slipping just inside, with the consuming sensation of fullness that begins as Patrick shudders a sigh into the golden curve of his throat.

 

He clings to him, sinks his nails into the stretch of Pete’s shoulders as he eases inside. It’s been months since Patrick’s had him like this, his body screaming with fucked-raw nerves as Pete slides a little further with each plumb of his hips until he’s seated, sweat slick and sticky, hips flush to the curve of Patrick’s ass. There’s nothing but pressure, the pushed-full feeling of almost too much as Pete holds himself perfectly still - vibrating with anticipation - and kisses reassurance into the plush of Patrick’s lips.

 

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice a caress as Patrick gasps and tries to adjust beneath him. “I love you so much.”

 

Patrick wants an elegant reply, he wants to whisper words that hang between them like they mean something more. He wants eloquent declarations and promises of something more. Instead he grits his teeth and, as everything gives around the invasive press of Pete’s cock, he gasps an instruction, “Fucking _move,_ dipshit.”

 

Pete moves.

 

He starts sweetly slow, soft and easy, the roll of his hips like the ebb and flow of the tides as Patrick finds a rhythm with him. He bites a bruise that matches his teeth to the curve of Pete’s collar bone, wraps his fingers in the fall of Pete’s hair and drags him down so he can hiss curses into the shell of his ear. He sets his heels to the flare of Pete’s ass and arches his hips, moaning desperate need into his throat as the jut of his cock finds that spot inside of Patrick and shatters him down to scattered sand and split apart atoms.

 

Pete curls a hand to his cheek and smiles, words falling from his lips that don’t make sense. He trails it lower, across Patrick’s chest, blazing heat into his skin as he strokes his stomach then closes his hand around the rubber-robed ache of his cock. Patrick cries out, stuttering with electric heat sensation racing across his skin as he cries out his need and ruts his hips up with aching, throbbing desperation. The push of Pete’s cock to his prostate, the curve of his palm around his prick, it’s too much, not enough, everything and the rest all wrapped up in shimmering waves that break against them to bathe their skin in salt-bright need.

 

His cheeks are wet - sweat or tears, he doesn’t know - eyes held by the honey-heat gaze that pins him back to the pillow. It’s growing within him, the peaking crest that threatens to wash him away, the desperate tightness that needs to come undone, the pulsing throb that strikes through him like a drumbeat. Pete is gasping proclamations, hips rocking and hand tugging, rolling his thumb over the thick-flare-flush of the tip of Patrick’s cock as he whispers encouragement.

 

“Come on, P, fucking… come for me,” he mutters, eyes glitter-bright. Patrick groans as the head of Pete’s cock ruts flush to his spot and blinding streaks of colour streak his vision. “I’m gonna… need you to… Oh _God_ , P, _please…”_

 

Pete comes with a broken cry, fucking into Patrick with desperate hips as he squeezes tight at the aching throb of Patrick’s cock in his hand. Patrick pushes down onto him, hips rocking hard onto the pulsing press of him as he wraps his hand over Pete’s and jerks himself frantically.

 

It hits him like a freight train.

 

Like something solid and palpable tearing through him, burning him from the inside out. It’s colliding planets and sunrise cresting bright over the horizon that burns him sharp with heat and perfect, pulsing oneness. He feels it travelling his bloodstream on tingling cells that drag the screaming perfection of it to each inch, each raw nerve ending from his lips to the curl of his toes against the sheets. It’s raw sound torn sharp from his lungs until he’s sure he can taste the blood that mingles with the _yes Pete, oh my fucking God, YES, PETE!_ that tears him apart from the inside and leaves him shattered to dust, breathless and heaving with greedy, grasping lungs.

 

Pete collapses to him, cock buried deep inside as he kisses fire into Patrick’s mouth, as he breathes the air Patrick can’t find into his lungs and squeezes reassurance into his hips. They settle, sweat-slick and raw with tingling sensation as they lean into one another, damp and cooling in the ruffle of breeze from the window. The lampshade sways slowly above them, caught to dance in forces it can’t control and Patrick wonders, is that the way to do it? To let go and just… let the things around him move him to wherever he needs to be.

 

Pete pulls out and Patrick somehow resists the urge to ask to check the condom. They lie together, side by side as they stroke and touch, as they kiss and whisper promises to one another in the dark on fuck-flushed lips.

 

“Love you,” Patrick murmurs into the salt-stained skin of Pete’s throat.

 

“Love you too,” Pete replies, lopsided grin and sparkling eyes. “Fuck, I’ve missed that. I’ve missed _you.”_

 

“Listen,” Patrick mutters after a pause lost to questing lips and inquisitive tongues. Pete arches an eyebrow. “I don’t know how long I’ve got - no, shut up, don’t interrupt me - I don’t _know._ But I’ve got you… and this… whatever the fuck _this_ is going to be with the band. I want you to know that you’ve… you’ve made me _happy_. And I want you to know that… I even sort of like that _Baby P_ bullshit. I guess I just… wanted you to know.”

 

Pete smiles, the slow shine of moonlight in dark places, the gleam of teeth like pearl set in his grin as he traces a thumb over the arch of Patrick’s cheekbone.

 

“It stands for Patrick, you know,” he whispers, drawing Patrick close and stroking his hair with the large sweep of his hand. “My Patrick. My Baby P. From the start and right to the end. Mine.”

 

Patrick closes his eyes with a smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you'll be back next week for the final chapter. I would also like to point out that, despite Patrick's rather macarbre supposition throughout the chapter that he was diagnosed and put onto treatment at the earliest possible opportunity. He just had no idea what the long term prognosis of treatment that new would actually be. So, you know, remember the happy ending tag...
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated or you can stop my Tumblr [here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers)


	20. It's only forever, not long at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we reach the end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crapola, can you believe we're at the end?! 
> 
> The final chapter title is taken from Labyrinth which seemed appropriate somehow. Thank you once again to laudanum_cafe for reading over this and being generally the most awesome cheerleader. I really hope you guys like how this ends.

“Go ahead,” Will brandishes a bundle of pink blankets with the kind of casual flair that makes Patrick deeply uncomfortable. “Hold her.”

He doesn’t have time to object as she’s thrust into his arms, as he cradles her awkwardly in that way that teenagers have around babies. She’s beautiful though, he has to admit, crowned with a mop of fluffy dark hair and her serious blue eyes above a button nose and rosebud lips. He strokes a fingertip over the down of her cheek as Pete leans closer, casually concentrated on the curve of her chin. Patrick blinks back tears and stifles a sob in a weak cough; this is the child he’ll never see grow, the tiny human that will mould his friend into a man through sleepless nights and diaper changes.

“P, don’t fucking drop her, man,” Pete squawks, hands spread like he thinks Patrick might do just that at any moment. Patrick scowls. “Just be fucking _careful.”_

“Shut up,” he bites his objection around the grin that makes his cheeks ache. “I’m not gonna, asshole.”

“Language!” Will snaps, like his kid is capable of anything more than filling her diaper or her belly. “Little pitchers have big ears.”

Pete slings an arm around his shoulders, peering down into the bundle of pink in Patrick’s arms, “Doesn’t she like… _do_ anything?”

As Will and Pete argue over the relative usefulness of a three-week-old baby, Patrick simply watches her, enchanted. His eyes rove hungrily over the lines of her face, the way she blinks at him slowly, the way her fingers clench and extend, each capped by a tiny, delicate fingernail. He can’t imagine her as a real kid, talking and walking and covered in dirt, can’t imagine her as a teen or a woman. He hopes again that Will might leave traces of Patrick’s personality that linger on her as she grows. He wishes – yeah, he’s a sappy asshole, he gets that – that this could be a moment he gets to experience himself one day.

“Hey Georgia,” he whispers softly, tears wiped into the shoulder of Pete’s shirt. “I’m your Uncle Patrick.”

~*~

Ryan White dies three weeks before Patrick’s twenty-first birthday.

It shakes him more than he imagined it would; just some kid he never knew beyond press coverage; the boy who got unlucky but still paid the price. Patrick supposes, as he’s done since the story broke about Ryan’s school banning him from classes, that people viewed him as better than Patrick. After all, he got the disease through a blood transfusion, not delivered by the press of a stranger’s cock into his body. A good middle-class kid, not a dirty faggot like Patrick.

It still ended the same way, though. It’s still a hospital bed and a mourning family that won’t see their son grow up. Patrick keeps a notebook – though Pete has no idea – a list of people he knows but mostly people he doesn’t, that have died from the disease that crawls through his own veins like poison. Rock Hudson, Gia Carangi, Libe-fucking-race, Ryan White.

Mikey.

The ones that didn’t make it. The ones he’s trying so hard to think of as the Not Patricks. The list he knows will grow and grow as time marches on and the epidemic takes its toll. He tries not to feel guilty but sometimes, lost to loneliness as he paces the tour bus like a revenant, he wonders why he got lucky and they didn’t.

Because he’s doing okay. Still takes his Zidovudine, still sees his specialist when he’s not touring. The first album made enough money to make sure he can afford it himself, saw him easing the financial burden on his mom just a little. The second album drops a week after his birthday and then, well, then he supposes they’ll just have to sit tight and wait.

There are rumours, of course there are. Kids he went to school with that can’t seem to keep their mouths shut and that leads to questions levelled at him in interviews that he’d rather not answer. Pete is golden though, shines at his side and always has the right answer to deflect the attention, always knows what to say to pull the questioning someplace else. Pete doesn’t hide him, doesn’t hide _them_ , presents them with pride as the first gay punk power couple to anyone that will listen.

Patrick just laughs because they’re still not playing arenas, still touring in a bus that smells of stale sweat and spilled beer but they’re doing it. They’re seeing the world from the green rooms of venues, their name blazed bright across chests and patches tacked to denim and leather. They’re hearing an army in every city that roars their lyrics right back at them like it eases the pain. If Pete promised him everything, Patrick supposes he’s delivered, even as he pads into the lounge of the bus with sleep-trashed hair and heavy eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Pete asks, stifling his yawn into the back of his hand and stretching up to his toes, tanned skin and sharp ink rolling and working with smooth muscle beneath.

“Nope,” Patrick shakes his head and plucks out a melody on his guitar. “Want to keep me company?”

Pete smiles, the glow of sunrise that will streak the table between them with glittering gold in the next couple of hours. He moves to Patrick’s side, head on his shoulder and watches with thrumming devotion as he plays.

“You and me, Baby P,” he murmurs into the tangle of Patrick’s unwashed hair. “Just you and me…”

~*~

“You don’t fucking _get it!”_ Patrick rages from across a studio.

A copy of US Weekly lies between them like an accusation, Patrick’s face right there on the page in glossy print beneath the smear of a headline _Patrick Stump sees AIDS specialist._ The paparazzi snap of him on the steps of his doctor’s office because the disease is so insidious that it’s a great place for a photographer to snap a shot. It’s so all-encompassing now as the list in Patrick’s notebook grows longer; Freddie Mercury, Brad Davis, Arthur Ashe, Ricky Ray. Not Patrick. Not Patrick. _Not Patrick._

He blazes with the unfairness of it, that he has to live with the aching reality of a split second bad decision from seven years ago. Pete pleads exasperated desperation from honey-gold eyes as he swipes the magazine into the trash like he can just erase it from existence. Like Patrick is a particularly stupid three-year-old and if he can’t _see_ it, it obviously isn’t real.

Andy and Joe slip away, melting from the room like spectres. They know marital-but-not-quite disharmony when they see it.

“It’s just a trashy magazine,” Pete tries to soothe him. The words aren’t enough, there are thousands – hundreds of thousands – of copies of that magazine in circulation. One copy in one trash can, like a grain of sand on a beach, like the proverbial drop in the ocean, it means _nothing._ “P, it – it doesn’t mean anything, just calm – ”

“No! Don’t you fucking _dare_ tell me to calm down,” Patrick hisses, teeth gritted and eyes slits of fury, fists clenched like teenage rebellion, bloomed with the memory of punches he’s sworn he won’t throw again. “You don’t fucking get it because _you’re_ not positive. I am. And this is what it is, it’s… it’s fucking asshole photographers sitting outside of doctor’s offices in case someone _interesting_ shows up. Outside my fucking _doctor’s office_. Don’t… don’t you fucking get it?”

Pete bites his lip and rolls his eyes, as though he’s so fucking _done_ with hearing Patrick piss and moan day after day, month after month. It’s the face of an arrogant punk in a bar in the suburbs, shirt off and backstage pass clipped to his jeans.

“I’m trying, but – ”

“But you _can’t,”_ Patrick snarls, water bottle hurled to thump uselessly against studio glass, knuckles driven into the wall instead of Pete’s face because _he doesn’t do that anymore._ “You can’t because you don’t have it, even though _you_ fucking deserved it!”

And there it is.

It’s sits between them, bitter and ugly, a twist of words that Patrick wants to recall as he stares at Pete’s shock-wide eyes. Patrick can’t feel his heartbeat, empty-lung dizzy and he thinks he might be frozen in fear and bitter, burning shame that flames him sun-bright in all the worst ways.

“I didn’t mean that,” he rushes to make amends, to fumble on lead-heavy feet to cover the distance between them. But Pete moves back.

“Yes,” he nods slowly. “You did.”

Patrick’s stomach is cold but his cheeks are blazing, lip snagged between his teeth as he stares at his Converse and wonders how to phrase an apology that won’t ring hollow. He blinks at Pete from behind his glasses and begs for words he can’t find. He didn’t mean it, doesn’t mean it, would _never_ mean it.

This is all he’s known, his youth spent on tour buses and in venues, in doctor’s offices and sitting in sterile exam rooms whilst another anonymous nurse, veiled safe in a mask and gloves, draws poison from his veins. No college, no job, no meeting the guys after work to hang out and talk shit about their bosses. He’s grateful but trapped, caged and pacing and not sure why it bothers him because music is all he’s ever wanted, Pete is all he’s ever needed and yet.

And yet.

He had words once, had a way to bark them at Pete razor sharp and made to cut. He knew how to be when they were just them in dark places and how to phrase the way his mind would whirl with it. The words have gone and all that’s left are Pete’s declarations, his poetry, his lyrics and his emotions and Patrick’s not sure – he tries but he’s _not sure_ – where _he_ is underneath it all anymore. He’s planet-spark-bright and hot-throat-panicked as he blinks confusion at the lights above them and huffs stale breath over desert-dry lips.

“I think I need some time,” he mutters at the wall behind Pete. “Away from this.”

“Away from me?” Pete clarifies, cold enough to burn, brittle enough to break. Patrick’s pulse is back, pounding drum-dark against his ear drums until they ring with it. “That’s what you mean.”

“Maybe that’s what I mean,” Patrick shrugs, cotton-mouthed and fuzzy-headed. “I don’t know anymore.” He doesn’t, he really doesn’t, head tilt-turned and spinning. “I think I’m done.”

Doesn’t mean it. Can’t mean it. Won’t mean it.

Pete looks at him like he knows, it’s as though he’s picturing Patrick with a Not Pete, a whole host of them. Anonymous faces and disconnected hands that don’t mean anything.

He thinks he means it.

~*~

The notebook sits on the table in front of him, cheap lined paper against chipped, tired Formica, framed by the denim of Patrick’s jacket as he rests his arms either side. Across the table, Pete smiles at him, nervously shuffling and humming with hope. Patrick takes a deep breath and tries to calm his heart from the raging, kick drum throb to something more natural as he pushes the book towards Pete.

They haven’t seen one another in ten months. Close to a year of separation that’s torn the air from Patrick’s lungs, robbed his days of sunlight and his nights of stars as he’s tossed and turned in a bed empty of anything but bad dreams.  

“What’s this?” Pete asks hesitantly, flicking through it. Maybe he imagined lyrics, it wouldn’t be the first time one of them has pressed a half-captured idea at the other with a demand that they fix it. That they make it whole. His eyes widen as he reads the names, as he makes the connection and blinks back at Patrick with a slow shake of his head. “You’ve been… keeping this?”

“Yeah, I did. It seemed… It was how I processed everything,” Patrick nods with a sigh that could blow them away, scatter them to the wind as he winds his fingers together. “I got therapy. I think I might be in a better place now.”

Tentatively, hesitation painting him fraught with uncertainty, Pete reaches across and touches a lock of Patrick’s hair.

“Looks good,” Pete observes, fingers caught amongst platinum blonde. “Suits you.”

There’s so much to catch up on, too many words, a whole flood of them, a burst dam of missed memories that blur and twist and trip over one another as they talk and laugh. Patrick’s been producing, a pseudonym and the bleached hair enough to distance himself from Fall Out Boy, from the realities of his disease and leave him as just a producer. A damn good one, it would seem from the way the offers flood in, the way the waiting list grows to work with him.

The break wasn’t as straightforward for Pete. Joe and Andy have prospered, a new band and a new sound that they’ve forged together, built on the memories of the ashes of Fall Out Boy, close enough to share the legacy but not stained like Pete. He’s forever dirtied by his link to Patrick, the faggot boyfriend of the dude that’s HIV positive. Patrick aches for him, for the reminder that he’s the rationale, the excuse, the cause for Pete’s aimless drifting, the reason Pete’s burned through his nest egg and is looking for jobs in the want ads.

“Come home?” Patrick whispers, squeezing the press of Pete’s fingers with desperation. He didn’t plan on saying it – didn’t plan on much when he called Pete, cold with shivering loneliness on a couch that was theirs once upon a time – but the words trip over his lips regardless. “I miss you.”

Pete stares at Patrick’s hands, amber eyes flicking over the notebook that still rests between them as though it’s part of the fairy tale and the keeper of _and they all lived happily ever after._ At least, that’s what Patrick thinks until Pete picks it up, until he starts shredding pages from it one by one. The ballet dance flame of his zippo glows bright between them as each page is sacrificed to curl and blacken and burn in the ashtray. Patrick watches the names drift to ash, lost amongst the cigarette butts and the glow of Pete’s gaze then glances up, unsure.

Is this an ending or a beginning?

“You wanted something else,” Pete shrugs like the eyeliner that smeared around his eyes hasn’t been replaced with shadowed bruising that tells a tale of too little sleep and too much caffeine. “Something that wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t know what I wanted,” Patrick can admit that over the steeple of close-kissed fingers as he forces himself not to reach for Pete’s hand. It’s 3am in a diner in the city, the fluorescent glow of the lights above them etching each line of Pete’s face. Patrick aches for cheesecake-flavoured kisses and paper straws. “I needed to figure myself out.”

“And did you?” Pete prompts as the last page burns, as the smoke curls between them. “Figure you out?”

Patrick worries at his lower lip with his teeth, sinking sharp and painful into the swell of it as he tugs the cuffs of his jean jacket down over his hands. It eases the temptation to reach for Pete’s hand. To stroke his cheek or drag his thumb over the curve of those lips. He ducks down into his collar and cradles his coffee mug with trembling fingertips and wonders – with a hint of a smile – what 17-year-old Baby P might have said in this situation.

“It’s you, motherfucker,” he smirks, brightly bold with challenge he wants so desperately to feel. Pete quirks an eyebrow in silent question but there’s a smile dancing sweetly at the corners of his lips. “You make me who I am. I’m not me without you. You’re my Punk Prince of Poetry and I’m half a rhyme if you’re not there.”

Pete throws his head back and laughs as the waitress stares. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he leans back into the seat, arm slung along the back of it as he grins that moonlit madness smile across the table at Patrick. It’s the backseat of cars and sneaking out at night getting drunk on liquor he was never old enough to drink.

“You’re a shitty poet,” Pete informs him.

“I’m shitty at everything without you,” Patrick’s on his feet and moving, sliding around into Pete’s side of the booth to haul him close by leather lapels. He still wears the red ribbon, tattered and looped on his chest like a badge of honour, it brushes soft and silky under the calloused pad of Patrick’s thumb. In the hum of shared breath huffed warm from mouths that know one another, Patrick whispers softly. “Come home?”

“Is now too soon?” Pete murmurs, stroking tender hands to cup Patrick’s face, to pull him closer until he can feel the electric-bright hum of warm lips. “Can I come home now?”

Patrick hopes the kiss is answer enough.

~*~

Pete fetches him coffee between sessions in the studio, a Starbucks cup clutched warm in his hand as he smiles hopeless adoration across the room. Patrick takes the cup, takes the kiss that’s brushed to his lips, takes the invitation to pull Pete down into his lap as he reclines back in his chair.

“Hey, Baby P,” Pete whispers with a kiss that tastes of something syrup-sweet and sickly, the bite of the coffee lost under layers of sugar and cream sweetness. Patrick smiles, rests his forehead against one that’s creased with faint lines he never thought he’d see. He rubs his cheek against the faint scruff of a beard that’s peppered silver amongst the jet and breathes in the smell of decent cologne and faint-sweat-skin.

“I’m 33 years old,” he whispers into the hum and harmony between their lips. His fingers find the hem of Pete’s shirt tracing patterns into smooth skin of his back. “I think I graduated from _Baby,_ don’t you?”

“You’re always my baby,” Pete declares into the curve of Patrick’s throat. Patrick really isn’t sure how true that can be with his thinning hair, thicker middle and lines of his own that feather the corners of his eyes but with Pete he’ll always feel seventeen.

Nothing will stop it hurting though, there aren’t words to make it sting any less when he buys condoms from the drugstore so he can fuck his boyfriend of close to twenty _years._ Because it doesn’t matter how many times the doctor tells him his viral load is close to undetectable, that it’s _safe_ as it can ever be or how many times Pete pouts annoyance at him as he tears the foil with his teeth, he won’t take the risk.  

“Remember the time Georgia fell and just… fuck, she just busted her face right open?” Patrick mutters into his cup. Pete nods, takes his hand with a squeeze. “I freaked out. All that blood, those cuts and everything and I was just so scared to _touch_ her.”

Pete’s heard it before – Patrick gets it – the way their goddaughter cried for Patrick, the way she’d rushed at him a mask of blood and tiny arms and how he’d hated himself for the moment of hesitation, the second he hadn’t _wanted_ to touch her. It’s the reason they’ve never discussed kids – not seriously anyway – the final barrier he can never quite break down.

“You were brave then,” Pete whispers into his hair, it’s darker than it used to be, mouse and ash, the leather jackets and studs of his teens replaced with plaid shirts and trucker hats. He’s never disliked signs of aging, never felt the need to worry about crow’s feet or hair alchemy-cast from gold to silver. Getting older means being alive and check-ups that tell him he’s safe for now. “You’re brave now.”

“Mister Beckett?” His assistant peers around the door with a smile. Will gets a real kick out of the fake name, says it makes him laugh every time he sees it on the back of a CD. And he emphasises _CD_ like he’s got something to prove. Patrick’s okay, he can admit he was wrong about them taking off.

Will and Sarah didn’t go the distance, crumbled like high-tide sandcastles because – and it’s still hard to admit because he’s still sort of amazed he and Pete were the exception – sometimes when you grow up it’s not the same. It’s two adults that would never have picked one another but they’re trying their best, still doing what they can to raise Georgia right.

“Send them in,” Patrick nods, urging Pete off his lap and taking a slug of his coffee. “Will you be home later?”

“I’ve got a couple meetings,” Pete shrugs. “I’ll pick up some takeout if I’m gonna be way late. The board have a few fundraisers planned and… Yeah, you know how this shit gets messy.”

Soft lips and warm hands, they kiss for a moment of brief relief before the world intrudes once again. Pete’s hoodie is washed worn with wear, the red ribbon embroidered above his heart flanked by the words _Young Blood_ – the HIV and AIDS awareness charity he founded for kids struggling to come to terms with their diagnosis or that of someone close to them. Pete’s found his foothold, his constellation in which he can shine, a glittering front man on the international stage of something close to political.

“Go save the world,” Patrick grins at him with a squeeze of his shoulders. “Love you, asshole.”

“Love _you_ , Baby P,” and with a starlight smile and swish of the door, he’s gone.

Patrick grabs his notebook, clicks his pen and taps it thoughtfully against his teeth as he stares down at his notes and research, at the loops and swirls of his handwriting under the heading _My Chemical Romance_. He likes this band, young and fresh and with a demo that ignites something powerful in his chest, he’s excited to get them in front of him.

They file in, a parade of ink and piercings and the smell of kids who haven’t showered as often as they should, handshake-smiles and stuttered introductions. He tries not to wince as he shakes the hand of the tall, slender one, tries to pretend the name _Mikey_ doesn’t send a shudder down his spine. They’re a hum of palpable excitement and _it’s an honour to work with you, Will_ as he sits them down and gathers his pad onto his lap, considering them carefully. They blink back – firework-bright with hope and streaked with ambition. He remembers another group of kids that reeked of sweat and zeal in a studio in Wisconsin what feels like a lifetime ago and grins encouragement.

“So,” he begins, question addressed to the one with a smile that could light a stage and pulsing with the kind of boundless joy that reminds him of Pete – Frank maybe? “Could you tell me a little about your influences?”

“Okay,” Frank leans forward, all animation and excitement as his cheeks flush pink, as he drags his tongue over his lips and gestures with expressive hands at nothing and everything. “Fuck, like… I know _everyone_ probably says this but… Do you remember Fall Out Boy?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go. That's it. I really hope you've enjoyed your trip back to the 1980s with me because it's been an utter joy to write. I will admit, this is one of the only fics I've written that has really affected me as I've written it and I hope, if you see a charity box for an AIDS charity as you go about your lives, that you'll throw in a few cents for all the real life Baby Ps out there.
> 
> For anyone who's confused, I never actually said Pete's Mikey was _that_ Mikey and I liked the loop I could form by bringing MCR into it. Please forgive me!
> 
> It would be amazing if you could let me know what you think, either by leaving a comment or, if you wanted, just clicking the kudos button. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading along, it's been epic! If you like, you can stop my Tumblr [here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) And remember... it's almost the weekend!


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